United
by Busman's Holiday
Summary: Ste and Brendan Football AU. Ste's the star player for his team until he meets his rival club's newest signing: Brendan Brady. Their paths cross through jealousy and competition, but Brendan's illicit feelings for him look set to ruin their careers when temptation gets in the way of the beautiful game.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Inspired by AU artwork I made and by the people who badgered me to write it – thank you to them, I'm enjoying it. I've never written an AU situation before and I know very little about football, but I hope you enjoy reading Ste and Brendan in a different setting. Each chapter will be from the POV of either Ste or Brendan. Contains supporting characters known and a few original ones.**_

* * *

**United**

_Prologue - Brendan_

The sweat still clung fresh to his back when the coach tapped him on the arm for a chat. The training hadn't been his finest, but he still reeled from the events of the night before. Eileen was late. Sipping celebratory champers, late. He'd been thrilled, toasting his new transfer, her new magazine column and now the baby. Then he'd fucked himself deep into some young thing half the night. After checking the nameless lad had no clue who he was.

Cigarettes were banned, but that didn't seem to matter to Jack, who lit up at the edge of the pitch. The clocked ticked closer to retirement and there was already someone lined up to replace him. He eyed Brendan from the side without shifting.

"How are you finding it so far?" The team was larger, higher profile, than he was used to.

Brendan spat the pool of saliva that had collected in his mouth onto the pitch by his feet. "Bit of a change of pace, I suppose."

Jack nodded. Brendan Brady, the seasoned player plucked from the obscurities of an Irish team, was about to be the name on everybody's lips. His name went to the press that afternoon. Life was about to change.

::: :::

::: :::

* * *

_Part One - Ste_

Finn – Scouse as he was more commonly known – gave a hearty laugh. "Three years you's been nominated for Sports Personality and the year you win some Leprechaun takes up half the back page!"

"I know. Twat." Ste tossed the newspaper to one side of the changing room, squirting the sponsor's new sports water over his head and into his mouth. Too fucking hot to play football.

Scouse wheezed with laughter and Ste told him to fuck off again and packed his kit away. His award win coverage would barely cover a parcel of fish and chips, but this newbie Brady's photo, his steely eyed intensity glaring from the paper, was big enough to be seen from space. This Brendan was all anyone could talk about. It was natural – they sussed him out, they analysed his game and called him a bender when he had a better match than they did. But their season was just as strong, if not more successful than United's and some Irish twat with a porno tash wasn't about to change that.

So what, Brady had made history and beat The Blues with a mortifying result? They all had their good days, maybe it was beginners' luck.

Except Brady wasn't a beginner and Ste might have claimed indifference to him in front of his team mates but he wasn't stupid, he'd done his research. Brendan Brady was something of a sensation back home in Dublin. He had the sob story to die for (dead mother, using football to escape undisclosed family trouble) and the longterm girlfriend lined up to be Mrs Brady when _Hello!_ Magazine came calling. He defied leg injury and age to impress the United manager – a transfer to such a high profile position was unheard of over thirty – and came bounding over the waters to be thrown into the lifestyle of the rich and famous in England. He was already the poster boy for United. Even the fans stuck fake moustaches under their noses in solidarity.

They had a Friendly next Saturday and with the column inches in mind – Ste had a point to prove.

::: :::

"You've got a date on Thursday night," Anne said. Ste could hear down the phone she was filing her nails. Sometimes he wondered why his agent insisted on keeping her for PR – she was more obsessed with her own image than his.

"Who with?" Ste said, he smuggled the Big Mac out of its wrapper like he was about to snort a line. His personal trainer would have him hanged for less. In fact, he'd probably rather Ste was an addict than touch processed food. He'd have to air the car out before he went to the gym.

"Oh I don't know," Anne said, a whine in her voice as she shuffled papers around, knocking over a bottle of nail polish in the process. "Some girl from a reality show. She's got boobs. That's all I know. I'll email you the details."

Ste managed to cough down a chunk of burger before attempting to sound vaguely grateful. "Great, yeah. What does she know? Cos I'm getting fed up, right, of these girls thinking they know my business."

Anne tutted down the line. "She's not got enough brain cells to work it out. And anyway, she's only interested in the fame. Get her papped and she won't care when you send her home in a separate cab."

"Fine, whatever. Send me the premiere tickets or whatever it is," Ste said ending the call and diving back into the McDonalds.

A picture of the kids flashed up when the call finished and he spent a brief moment wondering how much harder the cover up would be if his past wasn't the press-loved tale of a teenage dad from a council estate.

::: :::

Kylie, the pop-princessed name of his date, was the exact miniature sized (and brained) reality whore that he was used to dragging out in public. Truth be told, he had fun taking out these girls. Once he might have been drooling over them in the lads' mag, so he could muster the type of attention they and the press were expecting, but they were usually from the same background as him – same rocket into the public eye – so he could tell them which celebs were pricks and he knew they'd have a laugh over it.

He grinned for the cameras, posed behind iPhones for the fans and kept his arm around Kylie's waist at all times. The red carpet questions veered from wanting soundbites about the movie, to dating such a gorgeous TV "personality" (a girl who got her boobs out to endear herself to voters) and then when they broached the topic of his career, it wasn't the Sports Personality Accolade they cared about.

"Ste, what are your thoughts on your opposition's new talent? Are City quaking in their boots?"

Ste laughed dryly, face puffing into annoyance. "You know what – City don't give a shit about Mr Big Tash I Am. Not interested."

"What's the vibe like about next weekend's match?" The reporter stuck a long mic in his face. He scoffed at the word vibe, like the game was a Glastonbury gig.

"The _vibe_ is, we're gonna kick their sorry arses. And if Mr Irish thinks we're bothered about his lucky streak then he's wrong. End of."

Kylie steered him away after, having seen a lurking journo from one of the magazines, and squealed in his ear. "Why do they keep asking you about the other team?"

Ste groaned. "Uh they've signed some old guy from Ireland. Porno tash."

"Ohmygod, him! You know, without the tash he'd be pretty fit." Kylie stopped to pull her dress up over her nipples.

"Not you an' all," Ste said, rolling his eyes. He stood back as Kylie licked her teeth and posed for the cameras. He looked around the red carpet, surrounded by reality fodder, game show presenters and brothers of a boyband member. He was never going to get anywhere if he was the most famous person in the room. During the movie and slowed by his dyslexia, he typed out an email to his agent.

::: :::

They took a cab further into the city to milk the publicity and because on a Thursday he could throw back a few lagers and had no one to answer to the next morning. Since Brady's arrival in Manchester, he'd focused more and more on the promotion to captain and recognition for a better signing and done less and less to achieve it. With his motivation came the crushing sense of being overtaken by the dark horse from the other team. And with the impending, and he thought – inevitable disappointment, came the desire to pump his body with booze. He had his mother to thank for that.

Kylie fluttered her hand at the window, telling the driver to stop. They pulled up outside a blank wall with a set of spiral stairs heading down to a club that thumped with music. To her delight there were press already outside, but it looked as if they were packing up and leaving.

"What's the hurry boys?" she chimed, throwing her arms out for a pose.

They laughed and snapped regardless, a little more enthused when she flashed a hint of bum cheek. When they noticed Ste they ribbed him.

"Hey Hay!" they shouted in that sing-song way that set his teeth on edge. Of course some of them _knew_, they'd got pictures of him and a guy, but the photos were embargoed which they loathed. One leak and it'd cost them millions. "Another night, another blonde?"

He posed robotically, mechanical smile.

"Your mate was just here to open the joint," one of the paps called out. He signalled under his nose as the recognised sign for moustache.

"He ain't my mate," Ste said, giving Kylie's arm a yank to get inside. "If you want a quote, I think he's a knob."

Out of earshot, Kylie said, "I thought you said you'd never even met the guy."

"I haven't. But I know he's a knob."

::: :::

When they crashed out of the club at one and Ste had Kylie's lipstick all over his face – he'd kiss her when they were drunk – he had several missed calls from his agent. He sent Kylie home, gentlemanly, and she seemed more focused on instagramming their night out than the fact he wasn't going to sleep with her.

His agent called again.

"I thought we were working on your attitude problem, Ste," Mark said, the caffeine-alertness harsh in his tone.

"What problem?"

"Exactly. I was hoping we'd ironed it all out of your since you last altercation on the pitch."

The brutal tackle which had seen him sent off last year, with the headline _Hay's Headbutt_ and photos of him looking tight faced like The Incredible Hulk, had resulted in weeks of anger management training. That hadn't been the first incident either. Ste's tempers on and off the astro-turf were notorious, although with his spiky interviews. Fortunately he was given slack for his impressive performances and his image as a local young-scally-dun-good. And the PR alongside it.

"What am I supposed to have done?"

Mark sighed, scrolling through his news feed. "Called Brendan Brady a knob, threatened him with violent, made personal jibes about his appearance."

Ste sighed. "He's crying to his mammy is he?" He cursed as soon as he realised what he'd just said.

"See, this is your problem Ste - opening your gob before thinking," Mark wasn't the type to use words like gob. "It's running in the papers tomorrow. We thought about spinning it as competitive spirit but there seems to be little point – it's all over Twitter."

"I'm not apologising," Ste said.

"I thought you'd say that," Mark gave the indication he was wrapping up the call, "Stay out of his way during the game next week, Ste. Keep your head down, kiss his arse if you have to, just don't give us a repeat of last year. You'll seriously jeopardise your chances at the captaincy if you do. And don't even think you'll be considered for the Park transfer if you kick off again."

::: :::

He could see a light was on in the kitchen when the cab pulled up to drop him off and he could have sworn he left it off. It unnerved him as he approached, the nastier side of fame had seen his teammate's flat be broken into by a stalker, but thankfully he hadn't experienced such surreal lavishing of attention.

Calling out when he entered, he muttered _fuck's sake _when the intruder answered back. His hair had been chopped, free from that dark fringe that Ste had once thought made him look mysterious and cute but grew to hate, replaced with spikes and shaven sides. He looked like every other 20-something bloke in Manchester now.

"I did text," Adam explained, sleeves pulled down over his hands – again, once vulnerable and arty grew into clingy and needy.

"Changed my number," Ste said, arms crossed and face matched.

Adam nodded.

"You know the contract still stands," Ste said, unflinching. He looked at Adam coldly, the year they spent curled up in the flat felt alien now.

"Don't take me for an idiot Ste. I'm not interested in selling our story to the papers. I can't afford the legal bill if I did," Adam picked up a box that was on the floor by the coffee table. "I just came for my last bits and I thought you'd be out. Date, was it?"

"None of your business."

"I'm sure I'll get to read all about it tomorrow," Adam said, pushing past him and putting the key on the side.

"N'aww you feeling bitter? You knew what you were letting yourself in for, don't make out I weren't upfront with you!" Ste snapped, lunging himself forward to jerk the door open.

"I was just hoping you might grow up and realise what's more important in life," Adam said and raised his hand before Ste was about to speak again, "And before you say it Ste, yes you paid for everything, yes your little team flutters around you so that you can lead a double life, but what happens when you get old and no one gives a shit you were once a pro footballer and no one gives a shit you're a _gay_ ex-footballer? When you're forty and you're sitting on this pile of cash and a dead career, you'll be alone."

"Oh fuck off," Ste said, kicking the door. "What do you expect me to do you ignorant twat? Come out, cover myself in rainbow flags? I can't play football professionally and be gay. You don't get to do both. It's not gonna change. And if it does, I ain't volunteering myself to be the first muppet to get my head kicked in by every fan in the city. You've got no idea what it's like in those changing rooms – they already call me every name under the sun and they don't even know I'm a poof." Ste's face darkened, leaning on the door frame. "Yeah I might end up some sadcase with a load of cash and no one to give me a kiss good night but at least I won't be stuck with a prick like you."

"Have a nice life, Ste." Adam said, moments before the door was slammed behind him.

Ste switched off his phone, throwing It across the room, heading to the bar area of the flat where he poured himself a neat vodka into a used glass. It caught the back of his throat with a burn as he knocked it back and wiped the slow trickle of tears from his eyes.

And just as luck would have it, his eye fell on the newspaper dumped on the coffee table that Adam had been using to wrap his poncy ceramic sculptures. Brendan Brady's face stared right back at him, like he knew, as if he was mocking him from the very page.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Overwhelmed by all the lovely reviews. Thank you so much. **

* * *

_Part Two – Brendan_

He had the guy by the throat, lips still shiny with cum. He'd been smart with Brendan when he'd had a hundred quid tucked down his shirt and rebuked with, "I'm not a prostitute."

"I ain't paying you for sex. I'm paying you to keep your mouth shut." He loosened his grip and patted him down. He'd considered bundling the guy off to a hotel room, he'd picked him up with every intention, but sloppy kissing and a poor gag reflex meant he wasn't worth the cab fare. The risk grew greater every time his face appeared on TV and that was starting to become a daily occurrence. Back home he couldn't move in Dublin for fans, but out of the city he lived more anonymously, preying on skinny lads (his apparent type) – tourists mainly – to satisfy his needs.

When he first arrived in England he'd been warned, several times, that his fame would escalate and his life would shrink, the people he could trust would dissolve to single digits. For Brendan, his trust remained solely in one person: himself.

He'd not met his agent, despite it being planned months in advance, until he touched down in Manchester. On their first introduction the soft cockney accent surprised him and his watch rattled with its adornment on his wrist when he'd shaken Brendan's hand. His eyes, apart from their cold paleness, gave little away and Brendan wanted this man to know as little about him as possible.

Houston sat back in his black suit behind a desk and spoke quietly. "Let's make this very clear Brendan." He took a sip of water poured by an overly made-up assistant. "There will be no secrets between us. No skeletons in the closet. I'll know you better than your missus." He smiled tightly. "If you catch my drift."

He waited for the Miniskirt to leave and leant forward on the table. "So if there are mistresses, lovechildren or a granny prostitute lurking in the shadows, then you need to be upfront with me."

Brendan laughed harder into his gum-chewing as Danny Houston watched on stony faced. "I'm a good Catholic boy," he said, crossing his chest.

Danny tilted his head to one side. "On the same note, if you've got any extracurricular needs…secrets, you're going to need to tell me. Strictly confidential. We're covering our backs and yours. The perk being, if we know about them, we can help with letting them continue." He paused, looking straight into Brendan's eyes. "Coke, S&M, by-the-hour girls," he paused, "Boys. Whatever your tastes."

Brendan let the words permeate, not daring to move his expression an inch. Was this a test? In this dungeon of an office, it felt like selling his soul even though he'd already signed on the dotted line.

"I'm planning on marrying the girl," Brendan said flatly, the image of him tangled around a naked man filled his mind. "I'm a faithful guy."

Danny's smile made it clear he didn't believe him. "Well, as I said, if any _opportunity_ arises, it's in your best interests to tell me." His tone flicked then, like a setting change. "And if you read the contract again you'll see that if anything comes out which you hadn't made us aware of previously, then your contract terminates. And after that, no other agent is going to want to touch you."

Brendan's gum chewing hammered at ten thousand decibels in his head until Danny broke the silence again. "Well now that's done and dusted, let's talk about the press conference."

::: :::

::: :::

The Gagger hadn't been best pleased to have been blown off without – ironically – so much as a blow and Brendan sent him away. He'd emerged from the seedy little backstreet and reconsidered heading to the little underground club he'd helped launch earlier that evening, but it didn't seem like his scene. Too loud and hot and overcrowded with posers. He missed Dublin pubs and the comfort of whiskey in his throat.

It seemed a shame to waste the hotel room booked under an alias so he headed back there, disappointingly alone. He gave Eileen a call when he arrived, out of pity more than anything. Her upset earlier in the week – her period had started and baby dreams misplaced – had sullied her mood and she was even more challenging to live with. It had produced in him a strange mix of disappointment and relief. He'd expected to feel saddened because this wasn't to become flesh proof of his masculinity, his normality. Instead, it was for more vulnerable, more paternal reasons of loss. As for the relief – he wouldn't attribute that to the futile belief that somehow he wouldn't be forced to live a lie forever, no – but safe in the knowledge that he wasn't hurting another oblivious life with his lies.

"Were there girls?" she asked.

"It was a nightclub Eileen, of course there were girls." He was weary, pouring himself a drink and muting the TV as he landed on the bed.

"I don't want to pick up the paper and see you all over some tart," she said. Eileen wasn't yet built for the English WAG lifestyle. In Dublin she liked the attention; in England she hated the scrutiny. Her magazine column in _Love It_ was her way of trying to become the new favourite WAG – leading to what she hoped would be their beloved fairytale wedding. She was too steely for people to take to, but Brendan had no question as to who would soar in popularity if the nation found out about his indiscretions.

"I asked you if you wanted to come."

"You made it pretty clear you didn't want me there." The reasoning for that had been obvious, even if it'd failed.

Brendan's eyes gazed on the flat screen opposite the bed. The conversation with Eileen died and he ended the call perfunctorily and he found himself staring at the commercials vacantly. The whiskey was smooth on his tongue as images flickered up of a sports drink. It was the usual arty shots of runners and trainers and stretches of swimming pools. Then liquid was squirted into an open mouth and the shot lingered pornographically as water droplets ran down this guy's lips and chin and collar bone. Brendan licked his lips at the same moment as it happened on screen, the man's Adam's Apple swelling in his throat. The figure wiped the stray water across his angular jaw and the camera zoomed out for the guy dressed in a white kit to launch a football into the air. And when the camera refocused on the man's earnest face, Brendan realised who it was that had him captivated. Steven Hay. City's twenty-one year old star defender.

::: :::

::: :::

He awoke to fuzzy-headed recollections of going to sleep fully clothed after time spent flicking through sports channels; a distinct craving for City games and more of Steven Hay's mouth. He reached for his phone to look at the time and unlocking it saw his pathetic Google history, he'd even been paranoia enough to disconnect from WiFi to 3G so it couldn't be traced: _ste hay gay _(conspiracy theories of gay men behind a computer screen),_ ste hay girlfriend?_ (plenty, and an ex with two kids)_, ste hay naked _(partial). The image search had revealed a few tantalising campaigns from a few years ago, fresh out of his teens, with footie shorts pulled over his hip and a teasing expression enough to twitch the softest of cocks. The more recent advertisements for Raw Water, he'd grown more toned with age and with a full pout and erect nipples, they had him posed, dripping wet.

There'd been a sudden carnal compulsion to know everything about this boy – he'd never paid much attention beyond usual game chat of who was succeeding in what. He'd heard his name bandied about when he first arrived and his career meant he knew countless names and faces and teams – but no one ever really stuck. Besides, he'd sworn himself off taking an interest in what was under the footie kit for a reason. He wasn't making the same mistake twice.

It surprised him later on, stepping out of the shower when his phone pinged with an emailed Google Alert (another thing he'd clearly signed up for when drunk). A pang of nausea hit his stomach faster than his brain could process the words on the screen when he saw Ste Hay's name next to his in the headline.

_Ste Hay hurls insults at United newcomer Brady._

_City's biggest star Ste Hay let rip at United's brand new signing last night at the premiere of rom-com Lucky Star. Playing tonsil tennis with buxom reality beauty Kylie Joyce, footie player Ste - 21 – denied Brendan Brady was any sort of threat. He was seen mocking the new Irish player to the press, dismissing claims of panic in the City changing rooms at Brady's successive victories. Hay followed up his rant later that night at new bar Spiral – ironically opened by none over by The Tash himself earlier that night – where he laid into Brady's appearance, age and referred to him as a "knob". _

Brendan went on to read more about Ste's saucy night with Kylie, his past history with disputes with players from other teams and his record of aggression. The article ended speculatively predicting fireworks at the tongue-in-cheek 'Friendly' in the near future. His social media knowledge was lacking, but he according to Twitter, they were both "trending" (whatever that meant) and Ste had followed it up with an early retort, rewtweeted thousands of time by baying City fans.

_ SteHay – 1hr ago_

_stand by me word. sumtimes truth hrts. _

Brendan was checking his mentions – hundreds of tweets dragging on the dispute and repeating their new leader's abuse – when Danny called.

"Brendan!" he said, buoyed by the publicity flourish, "You seen the papers this morning?"

Groggily, Brendan sat up in bed, clocking a look at his state in the mirror. He looked shagged, even sadder than there'd been no action in that room besides a semi over a commercial. "Just seen it online."

He was practically gleeful. Brendan imagined him rubbing his hands. "The way I look at it, it's very good for business. We could start a full out war."

"I'd rather just kick his arse next week," Brendan said heading to the bathroom and rolling his clicking neck around.

"Little poof'd probably enjoy it." Danny said dismissively, making Brendan do a double take at his own reflection.

He swallowed. "Is he…?"

"An arse bandit?"

"Queer?" Brendan's face in the mirror haunted him with words from another time.

"Probably. Who knows," Danny said, his voice wandering like his attention. Brendan heard him mouthing his coffee orders to someone. "His press team are like Fort Knox anyway, couldn't use it against the dirty little prick even if we tried."

His eyes wore a soulless mask as he stared back at himself. A new country, a new life but the scars hijacked every journey.

"Focus on your football sure, but the game these days is all about being noticed. And you don't want to be that – no offence – old guy, weak enough to let the young little scally lay into him. Do you? You're not weak Brendan, are you?"

When Brendan responded, it was almost automated. "What do you want me to do?"

::: :::

::: :::

The plan become three-fold.

_One._ Brendan and Eileen became swiftly added to the guestlist of a charity lunch to support the homeless/women's rights/sick kids/cancer research (Brendan had no idea) after having dragged himself into a suit and downed a Starbucks's stock of espresso. Eileen's eyes lit up at the prospect of being on a guestlist and marvelled at dainty cakes as she grimaced sympathetically to tales of woe. She didn't open her purse once.

Her disdain matched his and it was times like this he realised why he was attracted to her friendship in the first place. They both did the press rounds, Eileen's self-promotion came swathed in empathy and compassion as her mind raced ahead to the composition of her next magazine article. Brendan's responses to the press came with restrained boredom as he shoehorned in digs about Steven Hay's masculinity.

"Being here, supporting this great charity, it's a shame that, someone like Steven Hay can't see the bigger picture. I guess some footballers let their insecurity and ego get in the way. When you've had a poor season, I suppose he feels threatened by a _real _man stealing his glory. He might like getting to grapple with the boys – on the pitch, obviously – but he'd be better off getting some anger management, surely?"

He gave toothy grins to the cameras – the good Samaritan – linking his arm around Eileen's shoulders. And when asked about the infamous moustache said:

"What can I say? The ladies love it."

The papers dedicated a whole page to his philanthropy. But when Brendan saw they'd illustrated his quotes about Steven with his coy, bee-stung pout in a drenched model shot he felt sick – mocked. His body itched like someone knew, although no one could have.

_Two_. Four days later, ahead of the Saturday Friendly, Danny Houston took Brendan out for a working dinner. Danny ordered off menu, not bothering with eye contact as flicked the order in their direction. Brendan's steak sat just as he liked it – still mooing – but he picked around it as Danny steeled him with opinions and plans. Danny was convinced they hadn't done enough to show Ste they meant business and the more he spoke, the smaller he felt against Hay's dominance.

"Hay's biggest dream is a transfer to Park. But you know what, he's old hat now. He knows it. He'll make captaincy at his team, sure – but that's not what he's been working towards." Danny started pointing his knife in Brendan's direction. "It's big money. There's nothing to stop you next season from making the transfer. I'd love to see the look on that muppet's face when you walk in and take his precious position at Park." When Danny laughed, he did it closed mouth and body shaking. Brendan's was hollow, mouth wide and head nodding.

"We're planning to put the feelers out in the press tomorrow. Drop a few 'unnamed source' quotes to say Park are interested in you. That'll show the bugger."

_Three_. The third part of the counterattack wasn't orchestrated by press or management at all. It ticked slowly in Brendan's mind as Saturday approached. And the closer that day crept, the more Brendan became fixated on Steven and soon payback seemed like the only option to stop things from going too far.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Your responses to this fic have been amazing! Thanks so much. I only hope I can do it justice as I continue. Events in this chapter will be extended upon in the next, with Brendan's POV, but for now: enjoy!**

* * *

_Part Three – Ste_

His waking thought on the morning of the Friendly wasn't the expected groan of having to come face to face with the Porno Tash for the first time, but the realisation that two heavy nights of drinking weren't going to sway the game in his favour.

The routine begin at seven: shower colder than normal, carbs, juice, vitamins, coffee, gym. He treated each pounding footprint on the treadmill as if it was Brady's face. His hatred had spawned into loathing the last few days since the rumours of his interest in the Park transfer had gone to print. Everyone knew Ste had been born and raised dreaming of wearing their colours. He bled for the Park position; he'd give up everything to play for them. Pricks like Adam would say he already had given up everything for that opportunity.

Brendan Brady was after his transfer to Park.

When the rumours fluttered about on Twitter on Thursday and made headlines in the red tops, he felt like Brady's target. Like he was the one with the knife, slashing the sails on his life's work. A vendetta. He took to the bottle like a reliable comfort, looking into the mirror and seeing Pauline shrug in contempt. _You might be worth millions but you'll always be my son. And you'll always be worthless to me._

He couldn't even escape Brendan Brady's presence at the gym. The Sky News report on the changing dynamic of teams had the camera tracking his movements during training, like the way he exercised and flexed his thigh muscles were some glorious sight to behold. Ste tried blocking him out with earphones plugged with heavy-based rap and ignored the close ups on screen of the man's face deep in enigmatic thought.

There was a text waiting on his phone after his shower, typed by Amy but from the kids: _Good luck Daddy! If we were there we would be cheering very loud! Leah and Lucas xxx_. They smiled at him from his lock screen and if anything, he knew they would keep him sober when the afternoon's game had finished.

When he arrived at the ground, the press vultures circled and swarmed the car, but the security at the gates meant he could rebuff any question. With hoodie up and sunglasses on he entered the building. Something in him decided to head to the vending machine first to grab a bottle of the free Raw Water instead of diving straight into the changing rooms to get his kit on and in the zone.

After battling with the cumbersome sports cap on the bottle and squirting a mouthful down, a throat cleared behind him and he turned. Broad chest and shoulders in grey sweatpants towered over him and a masculine smell of a rough sea awoke a switch in his brain, until his eyes snapped into focus and he realised the man before him was Brendan Brady.

"Steven," he said offering out his hand. Even the way the man let his name growl across his tongue, irritated.

"It's Ste."

His head crooked to one side. "Ste's not really a name, is it?" His tongue clicked thoughtfully, weighing him up as Ste de-hooded and slide off his glasses. "I'm guessing I need no introduction."

"Yeah I think I've heard of ya." Ste looked around the entrance hall looking for any point of interest so he didn't have to make eye contact with Brady. He sucked back water so he wasn't forced to talk. Brendan's eyes studied him uncomfortably and if he wasn't trying to keep things civil he'd tell him to back the fuck off.

"I thought so," Brendan said and then as he spoke, pinging his hand against the front of Ste's chest. "Say, you wanna maybe keep this about the game? Keep your little queer thoughts zipped."

As if the hints in his recent interviews weren't enough, the little slip of the tongue in the conversation proved it. Brendan smelt weakness and even if he didn't have the cold hard facts, he'd dig at him with the rest of them who thought they could tell.

"You wanna look in the mirror mate. YMCA want their tash back." Ste watched at the glaring pinprick pupils in Brendan's eyes hardened as if this metal sheet of coldness pierced his expression. He flipped the hoodie back up, side-stepped him and walked to the changing rooms.

::: :::

::: :::

On the pitch, Ste felt everything about Brendan that he did off. He was uncomfortable in his proximity, gave menacing stares and seemed to carry the game with fuel of hatred. And Ste was right about his earlier assessment too: he was a knob. His punishing kicks and aggressive tackles made the game anything less than a Friendly. He played almost as if he were his own team in his own claustrophobic bubble. A lone solider.

By half time neither team had made any headway in getting near a goal. The fans had wanted gore and a close race and they'd had neither. Ste and Brendan had shared little ground and the press didn't' feel like they were getting what they showed up for either.

The half time team talk lacked inspiration and the two nights' worth of vodka and beer caught up with Ste.

Scouse poked him in the ribs as the sports masseur worked on his calves. "So?" He spat his gum into the bin. "Leprechaun?"

"What about him?"

"What do you reckon?" Scouse had a habit of standing on his head in half time, which made for a distracting conversation.

"Aggressive. Knob. Out for himself. Knob."

Scouse laughed, jumping back to his feet. "Sounds like you're describing yourself there, mate!"

Ste faked a laugh. "Hilarious."

"Rob reckon he likes the old…" Scouse whistled, miming cock sucking which made the masseur roll her eyes.

"Robbie thinks everyone's a cocksucker so no one suspects 'e's one!" Ste jeered. It was easy to slip into the so-called banter when he needed to. It was the air that surrounded him from childhood to changing room. It was all real men and poofs – that was the distinction. It was natural and it was dirty, sexy and sick, right and wrong. The world of football was like living in a backwards state compared to the outside world that talked of gay marriage and had men kissing on TV at teatime. But meeting a man, finding yourself impossibly attracted to him – with a clench in the stomach and a heaviness in your body – that didn't feel like the sickness they'd have you believe. It had grown inside him since birth, just like his love of football. But to this world, the two couldn't grow together. One was severed and you lived with the wound.

They creased at Robbie's expense before they were called out for the second half.

::: :::

::: :::

At the seventy-sixth minute they were one nil up and the mugginess of the day concluded in a thick misty drizzle - the sort that leaves you blinking it out of your eyelashes. Ste's footing lagged in the damp turf and he knew it wouldn't be an easy task to reach an uncontested victory. He paused and looked on as United took an easy penalty in their favour and scored. He spat on the ground, running fingers through wet hair and looking towards a smug Brendan whose shorts cloyed with rain over his muscular thighs.

The next encounter with Brendan on the pitch made him stumble, clumsy footed as they tackled and Brendan's hands came around his waist. He knew the crowd would be waiting for their face-off but the contact was fleeting and the ball slipped out of their quarters.

When Ste had the ball again, the drizzle had disapated and he wasn't relenting with his hold on the ball. His team mates shouted but he had it. Brendan was on his tale and he had to show him – had to. Scouse looked despairingly as he ignored all the shouting and sprinted forward with it. But within a matter of seconds he was pulled down, the balance out from under him. His arm gave a hot crack it came into contact with a studded boot and he sprawled to the ground.

When he grappled to get up, he realised something was wrong. The whistle had blown and Brendan Brady's face stared down it him. His wrist burned with a thick pain and his fingers felt numb, muscles sharp with a shooting pain.

"Wha-?" he said, dazed. The crowd sounds felt like a blanket of confusion around his head. The pain thumped but the team of players around him swamped his mind more.

"Bad tackle, mate," Brendan said. He crouched low and to the onlookers offered a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Bit of a weak wrist, eh?"

"You cunt," Ste murmured, just as Brendan sprung up to talk to the medic. He put on the kind words and the soft voice. The cameras flashed at his face, wracked with guilt.

::: :::

::: :::

Even turning the pages of the paper in a sling proved difficult. Going for a piss was plain embarrassing. He didn't want to read their fictional tales of how the heroic Brendan Brady was there helping rival Ste Hay up from the ground, remorse clear on his fact. The papers, Match of the Day, Twitter – all called it an unfortunate accident. Even City and United's managers rewatched the footage and decided Brendan's yellow card was punishment enough. It had been a dodgy fall teamed with a misplaced kick. And really, was a fractured wrist all that bad?

Ste would be out of training for a month meaning he'd start the season late and miss out on more chances to prove his worth to Park. Was Brendan Brady's lust for the Park transfer so great he'd injure Ste to get it?! He was free, with his cocksure attitude and untamed popularity, to get himself more and more noticed by the managers at Park, whilst Ste sat their fading into the background.

Anne called him on the Monday, sounding as bored as ever.

"If it's about a date, I ain't in the mood." Ste said. He'd not been on one since Kylie and it was as though the press just didn't care any more. If they couldn't out him and all he was doing was dating personality-free tit models, they had better things to write about.

"Hold your horses Casanova," she said. She tapped away on the keyboard and she guessed today's distraction was Facebook.

"Well what do you want Anne?!"

She tutted. "Tetchy. Maybe this isn't right for you anyway with that attitude!"

"Get on with it."

"RAW are opening a charity foundation, getting kids into sport. After twenty-twelve blah-di-blah. They want you to be an ambassador. The face of the charity. Open functions, do some public speaking, look like you give a damn and so on."

Ste had visions when he first played for City; visions of becoming important. He had the youth and the good looks, young guys looked up to him, girls had posters of him. He was one of them; bred on no money and poor education and written off as useless with his two kids and his scuzzy beginnings. He thought about his heroes when he was young – Beckham and Owen – he thought about being an inspiration. And then he became bogged in transfer wars and press games and fucking PR. He got preoccupied with keeping Adam a secret and trying to keep him sweet, seeing girls in public and swearing blind to the counsellor that his aggression was subsiding. The council house kids got forgotten and the no-hopers never saw him.

Now his visions saw the word: inspiration as a come-on to Park. Ste Hay's the inspirational, charity giver, youth hero that they should clamour for.

The worn cynic Ste said yes. He'd be the ambassador for the RAW Foundation as well as their pretty water drinking poster boy. He'd not let a fracture and time away from the game let Brendan Brady step into his place and take his dream away.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you as always! The comments always make me really happy you're enjoying it! **

_Part Four - Brendan_

Danny had the newspapers spread out over his desk. He batted the words risky and pay off around but Brendan hadn't looked up once. Now that he'd met Steven Hay in the flesh, all bronzed lithe and flexible, he hadn't thought of much else. At the match he'd practically flaunted his sex appeal like a direct attack. And so Brendan had been forced to retaliate, harsher than he had planned, because he wouldn't be made to feel like that – not ever.

It had spiralled from the moment they met in the entrance hall. Steven's tracksuit slung low across his hips and Brendan stood watching that mouthful slither of skin like he could already taste him. He imagined salty Demerara. Ste stung brittle with attitude but something made Brendan pause: his first unconscious glance of appreciation before their eyes met. It was bitter flash of the past. The shutters came down without his permission and the resolve to not let history repeat itself grew stronger; Brendan would show him, show everyone, who the weakling was.

On the pitch and despite himself, Brendan admired Steven's game. His fiery temper stood him well as he sprinted as if on hot coals. He played almost independently – not like he didn't need City but that he knew how to succeed without them. The crowd bayed for a Brady/Hay showdown and Brendan could already picture their bodies tangled together in the mud in very different circumstances. All that aggression surged through his legs to the ball and the team around him seemed obsolete. He couldn't lose to the pretty boy. Steven would ruin him.

At half time Brendan saw him smile – schemes and plans and Danny's publicity machine melted and he wanted nothing more than to end the manufactured war and grow close to him. He didn't have the robotic blandness of the other players like he was born from a conveyor belt of rising stars. He had the spirit and the rebellion of a novice, like a guy caught up in a world that he wasn't perfectly moulded for, but the natural skill in his bones. Brendan wanted to bury himself in his spirit.

And then on the walk to the changing rooms he saw it. Just out of the corner of his eye and only brief enough to register once he'd walked past. A championship photo and face that blew the grenade he'd kept locked up for years. The guy played for Madrid now and Brendan had been left to reassemble a life.

They'd been a few months short of seventeen. On the same team, in both regards, but nursing girlfriends on the side. He'd look back on it now and see it as nothing more than teenage infatuation with Eoghan but it felt real then because it was wrong and unsaid and disgusting. They trained and played and spent every waking hour in each other's company; Eoghan showed him a kindness he never got at home. It was never uttered, but Brendan knew – could feel it from the way Eoghan looked at him and teased with him. And then the City scouts came and it was their moment. Brendan was the one they wanted, everyone knew it. But he fucked it up the night before the manager arrived by trying to kiss Eoghan Nolan and giving in to what this had all been leading to.

Eoghan wasn't stupid, he knew what Brendan's biggest fear was and it would have taken one word to Seamus Brady for the world to come crashing down. With his eye on the prize, Eoghan chose football and threatened to expose the truth about Brendan to his dad. Brendan's fear crippled him, stopping him from breaking Eoghan's fingers like he wanted, and listened to the boy's terms and conditions. Brendan had to forfeit his chance to play in front of the City manager tomorrow; call in sick, run away – whatever it took – and Eoghan would take his place as the star player.

Brendan made himself sick that night and quit the team, telling Seamus there were too many poofs in the changing room and listening to his taunts that he thought _Brenda_ would like that. He watched Eoghan pack for Manchester and Brendan slipped into a Dublin team that barely had a goal to their name. He vowed never to mix the two worlds together again.

When the whistle blew to signal the start of the second half, all he could see was Steven rain-ravaged and dripping like those RAW adverts and the need to stop him from looking like the stronger one. Breaking his wrist was the easy part.

::: :::

Conveying remorse and guilt in the interviews following the accident came naturally, so much so he started to wonder if the reality of his emotions seeped through his tales. Ste started to look like the brave fall guy in the press and soon Brendan's retelling became more about Steven slipping back into aggressive styles of play. Brendan had his own history of violence on the pitch but he put it down to a rougher game back home. The press seemed eager to pick up on any seeds of Ste slipping back into old habits.

"What were you playing at with that young lad on the pitch?" Eileen said picking over her fad diet lunch.

Brendan felt his heart stop. "What're you on about?" His fingers were white against the glass of water. A waiter hovered and he got rid of him with a glare.

Eileen leant over the table, checking from side to side first. They were all DJs and TV presenters too self-involved to worry about her gossip. The way she dressed – dripped in money looking like a drag queen's vomit – they were bound to think she was a nobody.

"Tell me now, did you hurt him on purpose or what?" Eileen had a way of getting under his skin. Sometimes he panicked that she knew, but she'd never be one to keep quiet if she even so much as suspected.

"Of course not!"

"Something in you's not right," she said waving her fork at him. She'd be the type of woman to stab him with one of those. He thought back to the night of the match against City, climbing into the shower after endless press interviews and jerking himself dry of cum, picturing Steven Hay on the floor of the shower taking it. And then yawning himself out of the bathroom making excuses to Eileen as to why he wasn't feeling up for it. If Steven had been in his bed; he would have been up all night.

Soon she'd be wanting to try again for a baby, he just hoped he could palm her off with a marriage before things got that bad.

"It's all this transfer bollocks about Park," Brendan said.

"I thought you were happy at United? I like being a United WAG."

He gripped the table to avoid rolling his eyes at her. The magazine column and her attempts at forging friendships with his teammates' girlfriends was making her a monster. In Dublin she was the lucky homely girl who had all her girlfriends claiming for attention but in Manchester she was just another WAG with a magazine column.

"It's Danny Houston's idea. He thinks I can try for a better deal. Park's a better club."

Eileen turned up her nose. "They're all snooty bitches there,"

"This ain't about you."

"Well it ain't about _you_ either. You're like a lump of meat passed around to the highest bidder. You think anyone cares about the real Brendan Brady?"

Brendan banged the table enough to startle her and cause the tables around to hush. "Shut up and eat your food." Even she was blind to the real Brendan Brady.

::: :::

There was another meeting with Danny booked in. As he sat fidgeting in the leather backed chair, knee trampolining, he prayed the Park transfer business was just a way to scare Hay off. Facing him in direct competition at every turn wasn't the way he wanted his career to progress. Something would break and it couldn't be him.

"Brendan, come on in." Something about the way Danny welcomed him in reminded Brendan of a dark eyed spider, arms outstretched in his glass fronted office. Danny got all the niceties out the way first – joshing with him about setting a date for the wedding and Brendan did the right thing of fixing his face with a smile.

"Heart of the matter is this: your popularity has taken a dip since the – accident," Danny made air quotes; he had no problem with underhand as long as it benefitted him, "But hey, it's got the little poof off our backs – if you'll pardon the pun. But anyway, good news is: public still love ya. Still, it wouldn't hurt to do a little stroking of your image. I'm taking public relations – cosying up to the do-gooders that sort of thing. We've done the donations and the nice little lunches with your missus but we need to go bigger now. Put a bit more thought into it."

"What've you got in mind?"

Danny handed over a draft brochure. It had pictures of grinning kids taking part in sports and backed by equally beaming Olympic hopefuls. Well, in this mock-up they were models posing as sportsmen and women.

"RAW – the drinks brand – they're opening a foundation and they want faces: big names to be their inspirational leaders and all that bollocks." Danny sat back, hands folded waiting for a response.

RAW rang alarm bells and Brendan knew why. "Aren't they City's sponsor?"

Danny tilted his head to the side. "Yes. But they're opening this up to all the big guns. Looks good too, show you're all bigger and better than your on the pitch rivalries."

Danny talked him through the finer details: public speaking, smiling for the kiddies, cheering them on at some egg and spoon shit. The whole thing bored and repulsed him. Give him a cheque to sign or a generic remark to make and he'd do it no problem. Time and effort and care – he wasn't interested. And he told Danny as much, citing his training as an excuse.

Danny laughed with an emptiness of a man who left his conscience at the door. "Sorry Brendan, when I called you in for this meeting, it wasn't to get your okay. It was to _tell_ you that you're doing it. This was just a formality."

Brendan sat cold in the chair opposite, another piece of him sold.

"Where do I sign?"

::: :::

The next he heard from the RAW foundation was a press release on his _crucial_ role and an introductory lunch invitation. Their spiel gave enough for Eileen to wax lyrical about his involvement in her next column and express her dream for children that she too could inspire to be ambitious and healthy. Any day now he was expecting her to tell him to forgo the condoms.

Eileen was slightly put out it wasn't a wives and girlfriends event after she'd splashed out on complimentary outfits for the pair of them, but he put the tie in the drawer and left open collar, silver cross hanging low amongst his spread of chest hair.

The press took great interest in his arrival and he slipped his gum under his tongue and smiled for them. There was a low hum of tension and excitement between the paps and he wondered what could be the cause for such a buzz at the launch of a charity foundation.

The answer became clear as soon as he stepped into the reception of the hotel where it was held and saw Steven Hay crisply suited and angular cheekbones in cohorts with a woman in a name badge. On seeing him, Steven immediately excused himself from the conversation and tucked himself away into deep and meaningful with another RAW rep.

The woman with the name badge clasped his hands and he kissed her on the cheek, brain drifting away from her introduction and onto Steven's presence. Of course he'd be at the event! Of course! He felt like an idiot for not even considering that RAW's pouting model would be a part of the foundation. His arm in a cast was a very vivid reminder of the animosity between them and Brendan wondered if he should broach it. There was a hope that he'd have put it down to the macho banter on the pitch, that he'd have ignored Brendan's comments to the press. But already the boy was doing a great job of being the charity champion he could never be. And when they exchanged a glance across the lobby, Ste's smile flickered smugly.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Bit of a longer chapter this time but it's a crucial one. Looking forward to knowing what you think! **

_Part Five – Ste_

"It's funny," Ste said, swiping another flute of champagne from a passing waiter, "I didn't have you down as the charitable sort."

Brendan had made a beeline for him just ten minutes after arrival. Ste would have liked to pretend he hadn't done a mental countdown, but he'd flicked his gaze back and forth wondering if the guy would have the guts to speak first. It was a PR nightmare: his manager had spent several phone calls trying to repair the fracture between the clubs' two star players and failed. Ste snapped at him that he should like the column inches but he could hear the rise of irritation in his voice that Ste wasn't the one painted in the favourable light, despite having a broken wrist. Ste's history of aggression was being pulled apart in the press again after his management had made such desperate attempts to bleach it from memory.

"It's not my first," Brendan said and unable to resist a sting in his tone, continued. "I've not seen you at any recently."

Their blue eyes matched glare for glare. "My health's been the priority at the moment, alright?"

Ste watched Brendan's eyes peer at his wrist, bound in the heavily structured cast. "Yeah, about that." He slung ice around an empty tumbler and placed it on the table behind Ste.

His jaw crunched as he watched Brendan stand there, palms open and rocking forward on his heels. They were roughly the same height, but Brady's broad chest stretched his white shirt open and Ste felt slight under his presence: the brooding masculinity of him. Ste'd never had much meat on his bones and he was picked up for the commercial shoots for his angular face and _pretty_ features. It paid financially to be pretty, but it was leash in football. But he wouldn't let Brady intimidate him.

"Listen: you can tell the papers all you want – it was an accident or it was my temper. Me n'you know exactly what went on," Ste said, putting his hand back down by his side when he realised he was jabbing it and didn't want to be photographed like that.

Brendan rested a finger under his lips. Ste saw it as manipulative on his part: if he was snapped like that, he'd look earnest and concerned. "I didn't know you paid such close attention to what the papers are saying about me." White flashed between his teeth as he rolled a ball of gum over with his tongue.

"About _me_."

Brendan shrugged, waited for Ste to continue with a nod – which Ste resented.

"Anyway, I know what you were saying after you did it and there weren't know reporter there twisting your words then!"

Brendan's mouth quirked and with it his thick moustache. "I didn't know you English boys were such push-overs when it came to a bit of friendly rough play."

Ste scoffed, folding his arms. "I didn't know you Irish played dirty."

"Always."

"I suppose you think this is funny?"

Ste watched Brady's face stiffen mockingly. "Am I laughing? Do you see me laughing? No? Not a flicker."

"Oh forget it," Ste said, pushing by to leave and talk to someone else. Brendan caught him by the elbow and Ste span for one final chance.

"Your wrist'll heal and in the meantime if we're both here, helping the kids and so on and so forth, maybe it's time to let sleeping dogs lie, cliché cliché." Brendan held him for a moment, fingers on elbow and gaze locked. "Please?" Brendan said please like he hated the sound of the word and didn't say it often.

Ste wrenched his elbow free and escaped to speak to another.

::: :::

The six key celebrity patrons – and in this case, Ste was glad they were genuine names and not Big Brother contestants and X-Factor rejects – sat around the circular conference table that was laid for a sit-down lunch. The Olympic trio to his right shifted uncomfortably in itchy formalwear and he hungered for their anonymity. If you weren't the chosen few from the Olympic coverage, you could take home gold and still shop at Tesco with no one knowing your face. He enthused politely at their twenty-twelve successes and tried to recall their names and events. Adam hated sport, the competitive principle of it and Ste's devotion, and home life had been a sports free zone so Ste had been forced to keep his Olympic viewing at the gym. Thinking back on it, the resentment had only increased from that moment forward.

Mark Savage – Dodger as he was better known, for his ability to side step the most brutal of tackles – sat sandwiched between Ste and Brendan with Park's mauve colours woven into his tie. Ste perched eager and attentive on the edge of his seat to drag Dodger into conversations that didn't include Brendan. He was a new player for Park and not especially influential but Ste knew team dynamics played heavy on the manager's mind when agreeing to a transfer.

Ste poured over Park's last victory like the moon landings. It had only been a Friendly against a team who barely grazed the league table but Ste described it like David and Goliath.

Dodger was all white Hollywood pearls when he smiled. "Mate, I ain't gonna get too cocky about this season," his cockney accent was just as pronounced as on TV and not just for the cameras. He took a sip of water and conscious of Brendan's exclusion, sat back. "But work is work guys, maybe for another time I don't wanna stir up any of the rumours I've been reading 'bout you two." Dodger laughed, patting Brendan on the back.

Ste smiled tightly, lips cracking. His wrist gave a twinge.

Brendan asked Dodger about his reasons for partaking in the charity and Ste was on edge that Dodger's honesty – _To be blunt, it was my manager's idea to raise my profile_ – was the wrong move in front of Brendan: he didn't trust him. Ste stayed quiet, watching Brendan's face as Dodger spoke. His expression seemed softer than Ste remembered on the pitch with his venomous words and adrenaline pumped brutishness. Sitting there, listening and blinking as Dodger spoke, it was like he couldn't even be capable of the actions of the match.

The usual sorts of nasty tacklers and homophobic thugs carried it constantly like an armour. You could smell the hatred reeking from their pores like radioactive waste. Brady had all the arrogance of the star player and the blind cult following, but he didn't carry that bigoted weight in his eyes. It felt like the front Ste put up when he was in the changing room, shallow words and the heart gone from his pupils. When Brendan's eyes met his, when Dodger ushered him into conversation, he hated him a little less.

Dessert was buffet style and Ste felt Brendan hang back a little so he could restart their conversation. He opted for a running commentary on the pros and cons of the various foods on offer.

"Now trifle, that's a good classic. Hairs on your chest stuff provided there's a good glug of sherry in it." Ste had his eyes rolled as he picked up a spoon with his good hand, listening to Brendan carry on. "Beats the poncy Tiramisu any day of the week…fruit salad's for girls…fudge cake heavy on the stomach. There's a distinct lack of crème brulee – cheese is not a dessert!"

"Are you finished?" Ste said, choosing a trifle and side-stepping the rest of the conversation.

"You won't even critique the selection with me? Come on, Steven!"

Ste moved to pinch the bridge of his nose but a pang in his wrist stopped him. "Look. Just stay outta my way, okay? Stop talking to the press about me and I'll do the same."

Ste headed back to the table, engaging in mindless conversation with the athletes and didn't speak again to Brendan. The afternoon passed with speeches from various members of the newly created RAW Foundation and Ste zoned out at words like 'mission statement', hoping they would just skip to the part where his involvement was needed. He glanced briefly at Dodger and Brendan who sat chins to chest, blinking labouredly to stay awake.

::: :::

An email followed a day later after a session with his physio. She scolded him for his tight hamstrings but with training postponed for him and a month on the bench planned, he was bled dry of motivation. The email was CC'd from Mitzeee and invited him to a summer sports camp for vulnerable kids that had been set up by the foundation, they wanted patrons there to encourage the kids and promote the charity.

He would have been on the pitch sweating it out with the rest of them any other year, but a fortnight after the email he slipped on smart trackies and headed to the sports hall in a rundown town that reminded him of home. He didn't think back on it too often – his kids would never have to suffer the same neglect and poverty he did – but it sent a shiver through him wondering what had happened to his mother and step-father since shutting them out all those years ago. They'd been like blood hounds at the sniff of money and he hadn't given them a penny.

Traffic on the way meant he was thirty minutes late and a familiar knot of resentment grew when he spotted Brendan Brady already there setting up a game of tennis with a young lad. Trust his luck for Brady to be the only other patron in attendance; he could see the sickeningly sweet headlines now. Still, Brady had kept up his promise and the sly digging was left between fans on Twitter without a word said on him coming from Brendan's lips. There was a tinge of pain in this knowing it was probably due to him being thrown into all kinds of intense training ready for the new season.

Maria from the charity clutched his arm on arrival and filled him in on the afternoon's schedule, which consisted mostly of games for the kids, teaching them new skills and offering the press juicy soundbites about the importance of the foundation's work. She handed him a bottle of RAW water – as if he didn't get enough of those freebies – and introduced him to blond-mopped Kyle who reminded him of an older version of his son Lucas. Kyle, Maria whispered, had a tragic story of childhood illness and the foundation were encouraging his enthusiasm for tennis to keep him off the anti-social behaviour warnings that lingered in the periphery.

Kyle was one of those lads that seemed too cool to be impressed by anything and Ste, knowing what it was like to be that age and full of anger, threw him straight into a game. He was good, too good for Ste's gradually healing wrist and Kyle softened when he was able to thrash Ste at the game. Ste didn't do the 'wise words' chat; he didn't feel old enough to be imparting granddad advice, but he told the boy how talented he was.

Brendan wandered over as they stood leaning against the net chatting. Sweat pressed his hair flat to the side of his face and he squirted water into his open mouth as he approached.

"You two gonna have a punch up?" Kyle said, eyes shining with glee.

Brendan peeled himself out of his damp t-shirt, muscles tensed as he wrangled with the RAW logo'd t-shirt. The new shirt was too tight for him.

"Not today kid," Brendan said with a wink. "You trounced him?" He asked Kyle, stretching his legs next to where Ste stood.

"He's good." Ste said, trying to move away from the petty rivalry.

"Oh yeah?" Brendan grinned, picking up the discarded racket from the floor. "I could do with a lesson or two."

Kyle took up the challenge easily and Ste found himself watching on at the sidelines, giving a running commentary and using it as an excuse to knock Brady's ego down a few notches. He played light on his feet and for the first time, he looked relaxed. And particularly poor at tennis.

He shook Kyle's hand as soon as it was over, clapping him on the back. "If I ever need a coach I know who to call. Let's use those gossip junkies over there for good." He turned back to Ste. "Steven you fancy saying some nice stuff about young Kyle here?"

They had a photo with him and when the journalists wanted to talk about Brendan's involvement as a patron he pushed Kyle forward to do the talking, to get the limelight. And when the press left, he wasn't running out the door after them like Ste had expected. He'd promised a local girls football team that he'd show them some tricks and he stuck true to his word. After marvelling at the skills of some seventeen year old wheelchair basketball players, under Maria's request Ste headed out back to the turf where the girls' team were on a carousel of skills run by Brendan and a few teachers.

The girls acted shy and fluttery around Ste, something he was used to, and were timid at first to get practising dribbling around the coned assault course. With an agreement from their teacher, they stopped after half an hour for photos (immediately tweeted) and questions.

"What's the best and worst thing about being a footballer?" asked one of the girls after a short while, aiming it at the both of them. Ste had wanted to joke it off and say jerks like Brendan, but Brendan spoke first.

"The money, the fame, the girls!" he said, deadpan. "The game is the best part, Rosie. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You must know yourself when you've got your head concentrating on that ball and your team then you've got nothin' else to worry about. Everything that's going on up here," - Brendan tapped his skull and seemed lost for a moment in thought – "melts away. Money's nice, but everyone wants a piece of ya. What you read, what people say aboutcha – that ain't always you. The fame is the worst part. Keep your head screwed on, Rosie, concentrate on your football."

She nodded like a dog in the backseat of the car and his words imprinted themselves on these girls like they'd carry them forever.

Ste looked to Brendan in the pause before his own response, lines spiralled under his blue eyes and it was the first time Ste felt a pang of interest in him: he wondered if the jaded and worn expression spoke of the same disillusionment about the business they both found themselves in. The perils of fame above skill.

Ste grinned toothily and all his dreams of becoming an inspiration came back to him as he spoke about his own discovery and love of football. The girls were enamoured; Ste the pin-up.

"But you know, Brendan's right with what he says about being famous. It's not everything it's cracked up to be, y'know? You don't get much privacy and you start to realise who your real mates are, people that you can trust." To his right he saw Brendan give a nod and the questions drifted into less serious territory and the girls asked about whether they ever ate McDonalds or if they'd date a fan.

When the kids and teens headed home and Maria thanked them and made an exit, they walked to their separate cars.

"You can drive wearing that thing?" Brendan asked, pointing at Ste's cast.

"Just about." He had two weeks to go before he could get it removed. He hesitated for a moment as the car blinked unlocked. "Look maybe I were wrong about you. Maybe you're not a knob."

"Maybe? Well thanks for the compliment. I'll keep that one for the eulogy."

Ste rolled his eyes, jerking his mouth off to the side. He shrugged. "Well you might still be a knob. I ain't got much else to go on besides a fractured wrist. But what you did today was pretty decent."

"This has been some character assessment. Thank you Steven. Enlightening."

"See you around," Ste said cutting him off and climbing into the car.

He had a Twitter direct message an hour later (Ste's management must had tweaked his followers: he wouldn't have followed by choice) from Brendan.

_Perhaps nxt time I'll be 'probably not a knob'?_

And in response:

_Perhaps._

::: :::

The next time he saw Brendan (and not just from the charity photos which Mitzeee cooed over when she sent them, drooling over Brady) it was a month down the line and he had been softly slipped back into training for the season. City weren't at a real loss without him but morale was low, not helped by United's season looking ever more promising. RAW had scheduled Ste in to take part in a charity football match with the girls they'd seen the month before, versus their biggest rivals. Maria had giggled over the phone when she described it as the teen girl version of City versus United.

Ste got right into cheering for the girls, it brought back fond memories of primary school sports' days and how he'd come first place in the running race. But unlike his friends, there'd be no sign of proud parents at the finish line for him. Brendan saddled up to him in the second half.

"I heard they were taught by the best," he said without so much as a hello, hollering the team name loud enough to deafen Ste.

"Yeah," Ste said dryly, flicking his eyes sideways to look at him. "Their coach is pretty good."

"Maria wants us to join in with a kickabout after – you up for it?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"Think about the children." Sarcasm.

"I am." Ste said looking at him. "I remember the last time I played against one." He held up the cast-less wrist between them.

"Good as new. I hope you've been giving it some exercise." He had his head tilted to the side, eyes darkly murmuring with suggestion. "I thought you seemed more _relaxed_ today."

"Wank jokes, really?"

"Porno tash, seriously?" He failed at imitating a Manchester accent as he pointed up to the offending moustache.

"N'aww. Sensitive aren't we?"

Brendan shrugged, hands stuffed in jogging bottoms. "It's alright, you're threatened, I get that a lot."

Ste scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

::: :::

The girls they'd met previously scored a tight victory and Ste and Brendan presented the medals and trophies and the cheques from RAW for the teams to buy new goal posts and kits. When the pitch was cleared, a small bundle of girls were chosen to form teams which Ste and Brendan joined in with. They headed to the school's changing rooms to change and headed out onto the pitch in City and United colours, taking opposing sides.

Ste made it his mission to play rough when faced again with Brendan, but he was much kinder on the girls whose little legs got swept away with the pace of the ball. After so long away from the game, Ste's adrenaline surged and he barely blinked on his run up the pitch.

Before he had time to realise where Brendan stood on the pitch, Brendan had barged into him and his view summersaulted and tilted until he was flat on his back, a leg bent back underneath him and a dull ache in his neck. Rage flared and he was standing and gripping the front of Brendan's shirt, forgetting his surroundings. He pulled Brendan forward and received a shove back on the shoulders, springing his grip free. There was a panicked look among the girls but Ste was right up in Brendan's face, spitting on the ground and gritting his teeth.

The girls' referee sensed the tension and blew the whistle on the game, calling Ste's team the winners. He didn't wait any longer to listen and stormed straight to the changing rooms, kicking one of the lockers and throwing himself down on the bench. When the door swung open and Brendan entered, Ste jammed his path, cornering him with fury.

"What the _fuck_ was that about?!"

"What're you on about?"

"You really have to show you're the big tough man in front of a bunch of girls, do ya?!"

"You're out of shape, _mate_. I barely touched ya."

Ste flared, arms flying exasperated around the room. "You just couldn't hack it could you? I mean, you're always here, always around trying to be the hero or the superstar!"

"What's wrong with a little competition?"

"It's not competition – is it?! You're dragging my name in the mud to try and get one over on me all the time! Ever since you've been over here you're all anyone wants to talk about and I'm nothing but yesterday's shit. And now, oh great, you want my Park position too because it wouldn't be right if you just let me have that. The one thing that makes everything else worth it."

Ste's jaw locked in his hot faced outburst, his gaze burned into Brendan's eyes. His breath heaved like he'd scored and he waited, tightly wound for fists to hit him. His knuckles clenched white.

Brendan broke the space between them and kissed him. It was so slight Ste couldn't even be sure it happened, but the dry bristling pressure of his lips cloyed against him like the sigh of falling into soft chair. Ste jerked away for a moment, eyes snapping awake and diving straight into gaze with Brendan's.

Brendan's mouth came against his, rough and open. Ste's back hit the wall with a grunt in his chest, finally moving his lips against Brendan's when his startled brain caught up. It was only with the grazing tug of Brendan's teeth against his bottom lip, drawing its fleshy warmth in with his tongue, that Ste realised he'd wanted this all along. Brendan's arm snaked up the back of Ste's shirt and fingertips pawed the nape of his neck, twisting his angle deeper into the kiss. Ste showed him then, with tongue hotly dragging against his and the wet murmur of a moan, that he was just the match for Brendan Brady.

He still wore his studded boots by the time he had one leg jammed up on the bench and then slid it around Brendan's hip, hoisted by a hand under his knee. Their lips broke with the damp pluck of flesh when Brendan pressed their flickering groins together and Ste's eyes opened like using too high a voltage. Brendan still thumbed his teeth down Ste's lip, warm little shots of breath from his nose fluttering his moustache.

Brendan took the cue to let his reddened lip free, but his fingers lingered on the fine hairs at the top of Ste's spine.

There laid a moment between them, like the completion of a test, where everything clicked. The aggression and tension. Brendan Brady was gay, just like he was. All the brooding and storm clouds, the ingrained and recited homophobia. He was gay. His eyes were lidded softer now, although the desire cut through them with urgency. Ste's eyes scanned the room and thought about the gathering expectant of their arrival at the front of the school. The changing rooms were almost like a basement, windowless and tight, but there was no way. They couldn't.

Ste's leg slipped down and he had both feet on the ground again.

"I've got a hotel room." Brendan said, hand on Ste's thigh.

"Who says I want to?" A breathless challenge in his eyes.

Brendan stuck his hand between Ste's legs, watching his pupils give up all pretence and capsize. "This does." Brendan pushed his lips against Ste again, palming the lad's balls through his shorts.

Ste felt him too: solid and hard in front of him. It was just a precaution that this wasn't some elaborate gameplay from Brendan. But in truth, the kiss had told him more than enough.

The charity and the parents would want to know what had gone on after Ste's scene and they were expected for a photo opportunity after changing, expected to look best of pals, so they separated bodies and Ste shuffled over to his bag of clothes. Brendan stood fully kitted watching Ste undress. And when just in his pants, erection unsatisfied and visible he turned and gave Brendan a sly grin.

When both were dressed, Brendan slipped a card with the hotel address into his jogger's pocket. Ste's polo shirt rose as Brendan tilted close. He ran a finger across the goosebumped milky brown of exposed flesh and Ste bit back a shiver. Brendan's teeth snapped as if he wanted to speak, but resisted and left ahead of Ste.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you SO much for all the reviews! They make my day. This update came a lot faster than I expected (no pun intended!) and I really hope you enjoy it! **

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_Part Six – Brendan_

Ste disappeared after the photographs were taken outside the school. The altercation on the pitch was glossed over, brushed off as a hot-headed moment of misunderstanding and the focus quickly shone back on the girls. Brendan responded to questions with bleary eyed stammering like he'd done ten rounds in the boxing ring – he was even asked if he was feeling okay. When the cameras had stopped flashing he retreated to the car and parked it a short distance from the school. His elbows rested on the steering wheel, horizon jittery.

With his head wrecked he drove to the hotel, setting off the flash of a speed camera and finding the maze of roads impossible to tackle. As soon as he arrived at the hotel he took a shaking measure of whiskey and threw it back to burn his throat. His gaze clamped on the hotel's revolving doors hoping to spot Steven's arrival and that he wouldn't be left unsatisfied and mortified by a no show. He could barely process the events of the changing room, he just knew he needed to do it again.

His cock throbbed with the delay and he hid behind his shades, paranoid as the barman whispered to his colleague. He'd almost forgotten his celebrity status. Brendan thought about taking the easier option, picking up an anonymous bloke – the barman even, he'd pass from behind – and threatening him to keep his mouth shut. But he longed for Steven.

Dutch courage fuelled, he headed to the reception to check in. The receptionist with the full pout smiled, her voice chirpy as she told him he'd been upgraded. Behind the shades he rolled his eyes, telling her he wasn't interested.

She blinked, fixing her smile. "It's all set up for you sir."

He snatched the card from her, looking for directions in the signage and just hearing her call out that he was on the top floor. His heart hammered as he played out what Steven might have to say at the front desk to get directed to his room – he wasn't even booked in under his real name. He imagined the pretty enamel smile of his now saddling up to reception being less than subtle in his man hunt. The key card needed slotting in the lock several times before the satisfying click for entry.

The door opened to a glossy suite, a living area straight in front of him and he unzipped his leather jacket, hooking it precariously on one of the gold hangers.

"I was beginning to think you'd stood me up."

His heart pumped him hot in surprise at Steven standing in front of him. He had his lip bitten pink at its fullest part, a cold beer in his hand and his polo shirt lost somewhere on the bedroom floor.

"Got us upgraded."

He didn't falter for a moment, knocking the beer clean out of Steven's hand, the glugging lager discolouring the carpets, he steered him straight against the nearest wall, ripping their mouths apart with the shortness of breath. Ste's nails clawed his back like thorns and he hiked his legs up and around him with all the flexibility of a ballet dancer. Brendan's tongue slicked against Ste's moans, smacking his head as it fell back against the wall. He looped his hands around Brendan's neck until he was half carried and half thrown on top of the made kingsize.

Patience for slow undressing seemed unachievable and Ste had already pulled off his joggers and boxers before Brendan begun. His mouth spread devilishly as he looked on Steven's smug position on the bed, dick lolling thick in his palm.

"I top." Brendan wedged his thumbs into his tracksuit bottoms and pulled, cock bouncing back against his belly.

His stomach lurched a little at the hunger in Ste's first gaze. "Suits me." He didn't look up to Brendan's face when he said it.

Brendan kneeled at his feet, fingers and thumbs caressing his abdomen and following the lines of muscle under his hip bones. He felt smoother than he looked – if that was even possible – like salted caramel under his digits. And Steven spread himself out, one hand thrown over his forehead like a swoon and the other stealing his job with impatient masturbation.

"I bought stuff with me," Ste said almost reading his mind and twisting his head to indicate the top drawer of the side cabinet. "Fuck I'm glad I bought large." The laughter rose low in his belly.

Brendan growled a little on his lips and pushed their cocks together. His teeth grazed Ste's lazily opened jaw. "I would've gone without."

"Not with me, Brady." Ste pushed his face away.

"Like you'd have said no to this." Brendan kissed across his nipples, pinching them with his teeth and thrusting his bare cock against Ste's fleshy thigh. He let Ste pull his body up the bed when he walked to the drawer, ripping open a condom and tossing the lube bottle onto the bed. Everything came new and sealed, bought fresh and hurriedly.

"Foreplay's gone out the window then?" Ste said, eyes bright and playful, elbow jutting out from under his head.

Brendan rolled on a condom, spreading Ste's knees and folding him in two like a playing card. "What do you want – flowers?"

Brendan smirked on seeing that Ste didn't roll his eyes with irritation, but because Brendan's fingers were wet with lubricant then and fit snuggly in the valley of his arse. He teased them along it like slipping on ice and then just because he could, pushed his forefinger inside and watched Ste's eyes disappear behind his lids.

"You're a –" he said, words lost in a groan.

"Yeah I know." Brendan worked the finger _in out in twist_.

He felt Ste's knees give way and his toes stretch tight somewhere in the air. He'd just let him moan for a bit, tangled up his own frustration – that was the plan anyhow. But Steven didn't play passive for him then and opened his eyes to reach and tug at Brendan's cock, throwing his hand over Brendan's back and pulling him down.

Brendan only felt the surrealism of the situation as he heard a bubble of a cry form in Ste's throat when he'd forced him at all angles and plunged his cock inside. The lad swore more with the sweat rippling fresh on his torso than he did on the pitch; four letter words gunning the air and Brendan's solid arms fortressing the space around his head. Inside he was blisteringly hot and tight and sweeter than anyone could have dreamt up. Brendan had a hand wedged under one cheek just to angle him ragged – he liked to see him cum first, not just so it felt like a victory but so he'd get the lad's full orgasm dragging him in.

Like he gathered, Ste didn't just lie there with a tart's mouth cooing the things he ought to cry, he rolled his hips with a well-honed balance and saved his instruction for when he really needed it. And that turned out to be not too often, because Brendan was four steps ahead and tweaking the weight of his balls with his palm. He tapped Steven's cheek so his eyes whipped open like a starburst and grinned rakishly at him, before sliding out from him and flipping him onto his front as Steven opened his mouth ready with a complaint.

He curled up like an adder, arse gleaming as the prize and Brendan drew up behind him, lining up and striking with a deep thrust. He grunted low and long, feeling the bed jolt underneath, and he was never this noisy with others – never this free. Ste climbed up onto knees and palms, those deceptive spindly arms, and shot back his head, lips responsive and wet against Brendan's. The hand that was free to roam, explored the blushing centre of Steven's chest, hairless and toned, and then to the warm and damp dick that leaked impatiently.

He wasn't one for dirty talk, but he toyed with the idea of telling Steven he wanted to see his cum face. Instead he murmured the sound of something beastly into Steven's ear and felt the bones in his wrist click as he wanked Ste off at a punishing speed.

When the lad rasped through breaths, Brendan took sticky handfuls of his hairy thighs – his chest flat against the duvet – and fucked and fucked and _fucked_ until he was spent and his damp chest hair flattened against Steven's back. Out of courtesy he removed himself – even though it felt good inside him – flicked the condom in the wastepaper bin and laid out on the bed next to Ste.

He'd been waiting for the questions before he'd got balls deep. If Steven hadn't served himself up for the taking on arrival, he was expecting the inquisition and contract signing.

Steven shuffled out of his drying mess and scooted up the bed, turning his head to the side.

"So much for me being a big poof then." He had that glittery pink lipped smile on his face. It was cute - for a guy.

"Smug and queer. The two qualities I like best in a shag." The cold sting came with the tag of defence mechanism.

"Well, that's me told." Ste stand up, swinging his legs off the side and reaching for his underwear.

"Steven…" Brendan touched a hot hand to his shoulder blade.

"You're a knob. I was right the first time."

"Hold on," Brendan said, getting up out of bed and snatching the clothes from his grip. Ste shrugged and pulled on his polo shirt.

"Fine I'll go down to reception like this."

"Yeah the papers'll love that."

Ste grinned without it reaching his eyes, "You should meet my PR team, mate."

Brendan gripped him by the collar and squeezed him into a kiss. Steven shoved him off and panted and grappled until they met again, molten tongues and mouths stumbling over each other.

"M'sorry" Brendan said, half against his mouth when he still had breathing to think about. He'd usually let the shags walk out if they put up a fuss. Steven wasn't just one of them.

Ste pushed him hard on the shoulders and after a pause smoothed down his chest with unmistakable fondness. Brendan slid his hands up and under the polo shirt and eased it up over Ste's head. He perched on the end of the bed and Ste sat astride.

"Does your girlfriend know?"

Brendan wasn't used to that talk in situations like this and he flinched, wanting to ask thefuck was it Ste's business but liking the tenderness of Steven's hands on the nape of his neck to want to disturb the peace.

"Know what?"

Ste sighed. "Er what do you think? Well – what are you then? Queer or only does anal on a Saturday type of bloke? She an arrangement or what?"

Brendan's eyes rolled with the effort of explanation. He mauled Steven's boxer shorts front and back absent-mindedly and then stood up. "I'll pour us a drink."

When he returned back to the bedroom, beer for Ste and whiskey for himself, Steven had untucked the covers and slipped underneath. He could get used to the way Steven's eyes followed him around the room.

"Don't get caught ogling like that in the changing rooms." He teased, clambering in ungracefully next to him.

"They're nowt special," Ste said, clinking bottle to glass and taking a swig. "It's usually the ones who get the most attention that've got the smallest pricks." He bit the corner of his mouth like a flirt. "You might be the exception."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Yeah, alright." The lad was knocking back the beer like he was deep-throating and Brendan would be sure to save that thought for later. "So tell me then, what's the deal with you?"

Brendan blinked at his casualness, as if years of torment and anguish came down to a single sentence. He'd not said the words, not to anyone, not even to the mirror. "I'm gay." He slid the whiskey down his throat to burn the words away. "Eileen's none the wiser."

"Seriously?"

"She's picking out wedding bouquets and I'm – "

"Shagging some bloke."

"Pretty much."

Ste looked at him for a long time. "You've never met anyone and…"

"A bloke?"

"Yeah."

Brendan scoffed. And then couldn't believe the honesty he was unleashing. "You don't fall in love after a sleazy hour and someone too scared to grass. Truth is: I got nothing. Press would rip me apart." He crossed his chest and kissed the silver crucifix which hung like a hypocrite around his neck.

Ste wiped the beer's moisture from his mouth and rested the empty bottle on the floor. "Your manager, though?"

He shook his head.

"What?! That's asking for trouble, that!" Ste surprised him with a hand on his forearm that just stayed and stayed, fingers sweeping the hairs. "How'd you think I get away with it? I spent a year living with my boyfriend," – Brendan twitched at the word and tried to listen to the rest – "and every year I've had a story embargoed about me. I just go on all these dates with these bimbos just so the public still think I'm straight. The press all know, they just can't write about it."

His touch had grown curious and spider-light on his abs. Brendan hadn't counted on this much affection, but then he'd normally have kicked them out before now.

"What about back in Ireland?"

"I was a good Catholic boy." He grinned at Ste and didn't seem to mind much when his fingers ran over the cross necklace. "I kept my urges out of the city."

"It'd do my head in worryin' about it."

Brendan couldn't stand to talk about the headache that was his situation any longer, particularly when he had the glowing example of a boy working the system to his advantage – best he could at least – lying beside him.

Ste padded out of the room for a 'slash', as he so elegantly put it, and Brendan shook himself into getting a grip when he felt the warm bed that Ste had left behind. He braced himself ready for a brush off, to start dressing until Ste stood naked in the bathroom doorway, pants kicked off by his feet and cock blossoming into life.

"I thought about leaving." Ste said, leaning forehead on forearm at the doorframe. "Cos I still think you're a cunt for breaking my wrist and I dunno if I can forgive you for that. But then I thought about it a bit more and I really fucking fancy you even with that twatty moustache, alright? I dunno if it's beer goggles or whatever."

Brendan pinched the bridge of his nose with exasperation. "Something needs to shut you up."

He snorted with laughter and knelt up onto the bed, gangly clambering and kneeling his way over the duvet like on an expedition. "Yeah, right, about that." He licked his bottom lip shiny. "I got talents apart from my football you know."

"I'd hope so cos your game's shit."

Ste's forehead dug with lines. "I got sharp teeth too, you know."

"Is that a threat?" His eyes glinted.

"It's a warning."

Brendan stroked the back of his head where the fluffy parts stuck out, he pushed with a little purposeful pressure. Steven's hand toyed with an over-the-cover grope.

"You swallow?" The question rolled from his mouth all too easily – he blamed Ste's hunger for that.

"If you like." He pulled the cover back and looked up at Brendan with his tongue hanging loose. His eyes looked the darkest yet, framed with jet black lashes.

Brendan snapped back a grunt and pulled the lad's hand into his palm. "I like."

"Would you throw me out if I said no?" His smile shone with defiance and didn't give Brendan a second to blink as he swallowed him root to tip in one mouthful without so much as a pause.

Brendan spluttered an echoing _Fuck_ and banged the wall with his fist, deafening the wet suction pop as Ste freed him. His tongue darted in skilful patterns across the swollen head of his cock, making each moan spark currents through his spine when it vibrated. Ste made him feel like a fool for mocking him and it felt only natural caressing his neck to tell him how good it felt.

Ste broke for the shortest of seconds, breathless and wet mouthed, to smile like he knew and then launched his mouth south until the pubic hair sprouted around his nose. He'd been precise in how deep he'd suck, not a gagging in sight, hollowing his cheeks until Brendan could see his bones.

He didn't break promises either, drinking down cum and palming it from his chin with a gasping dizzy laughter. Brendan had him on top, salty kissing with his hands on that warm little curve of Ste's lower spine, straight after.

::: :::

The hotel phone woke him and he answered it, sleep and Steven's cum making his tongue thick and furry.

"Sir, there's an Eileen O'Neil on the phone, shall I put her through?" He agreed, concerned that something might be wrong.

Brendan glanced at the stirring body beside him and wished he'd just stay like that, all soft and snuggled. Dealing with what came after scared him.

"Eileen what's wrong?"

"I've been calling you for hours. Jesus I thought you'd been hit by a truck for all I know."

"I'm in a meeting."

"With who?"

"Charity thing."

"You were meant to be taking me out to dinner."

"There's still time."

He could even hear her sulking. "Well how long are you gonna be?"

"I dunno." He felt Steven's fingertips on the back of his thigh, circling. "I'll call ya. Yeah love you too."

His hair was all mussed up on the pillow. "Fun's over then?"

He promised himself he wouldn't. He'd sworn on his mother's grave. "It doesn't hafta be." He thumbed over Ste's hair and fuck if he wasn't sexier than those bloody drink commercials. This was the worst idea he'd ever had. Life ruining.

"More than just a shag, then?"

"If you want."

So much more. Steven Hay might as well have been a tornado.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I'm so happy you're all loving it and it makes it even more fun to write. I hope this update doesn't disappoint! Thanks as ever for all the kind words. I appreciate it._

_:::_

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_Part Seven – Ste_

"Does every visit have to turn into some media circus?" Amy said on a humid Sunday when Ste had packed them into his soft-top and driven to Southport. It was a weekend off from the football but photographers and their long-lenses hovered. He just told Amy to block them out as he swept Leah's hair out from her scoop of ice cream.

"I'd thought you'd sorted it before?" Amy stood in the path between the photographers and Lucas. She'd been splashed over the magazines before but when the press gave up on any reunion between her and Ste, they became less interested.

"They're banned from showing their faces," Ste said wiping Leah's mouth as she squealed away. "You're such a mucky-pup you are!" He imagined the pixelated snaps of his family snaps now as the doting father, speculating how the next woman in his life would take on the role of step-mother.

Later on when the kids occupied themselves with crabbing in isolated twinkling rock pools, far and away from the paps, Ste asked of her latest romance which had developed rapidly from dating to proposals. Lee – the sap's name – was a pitifully low budget TV producer on some psychic TV channel but was all too used to "the perils of fame and fortune" or so he'd told Amy when they'd first met. She'd stopped trying to pretend she wasn't THE Amy Barnes who'd been knocked up as a teenager by the man who'd go onto to play for City.

"Well just be careful, alright? That's all I'm saying. You've had enough blokes in the past try and use you for a bit of fame."

She tutted loudly giving him a shove and helping out Lucas with his bucket. "Says you going out with any old thing off the telly!"

"Yeah and you know why."

"Has daddy got a girlfriend?" Leah grinned, twirling on the spot with excitement. Kids talk – that's what they'd decided long ago and it was too dangerous for her to know the truth until she was old enough to handle it.

"Not right now sweetie. Shall we go and look for mermaids?" And like that she was distracted, poking around for Ariel in the seaweed.

On the drive home the kids were zonked, hulked through all emotions from sugar, salt and sun overdose and crashed out asleep. They stopped off on the way for Amy to pick up a petrol station tea and when she returned, blowing on it softly, she stopped Ste through the window masking a grin as he looked at his phone.

"Oh yeah?" She said, slipping into the passenger seat and craning her neck to see before he pushed the phone back into his pocket. She clapped her hands a little. "Have you worked things out with Adam?"

"No!" He whined a like a child, buckling up and pulling back onto the motorway. "It's over, done, finished. I'm well shot."

Amy hummed a little. "He's so lovely. I think you're making a mistake."

"Right, well. It's not up for discussion Ames."

"Because you've got someone else on the go?"

"That's not the reason we broke up."

"But you're seeing someone."

"Yeah."

Seeing someone? He guessed it was called that even when 'seeing' them lately involved being pre-occupied in thought and barely getting any time alone. Brendan's texts fluttered his demeanour like a teenage girl, even if they were the most mundane and scrambled with autocorrect as well as Brendan's odd and dated command of text speak. Of an evening they were littered with his horny ramblings and desperation for a hook-up, ones which weren't cock blocked by managers, agents, coaches, an actual girlfriend and girls on beard duty.

The night together from two weeks ago, rolled into a _whole _night when Brendan switched off his phone and told reception to ring Eileen with some poor excuse for him that miraculously involved staying away for the night. It had ended in the morning with Ste attempting to make the cut first, figuring he'd save Brendan the awkwardness of having to pretend he meant what he'd said about making their arrangement a regular one in his post-blowjob haze.

He'd been showered, dressed and tying his laces when Brendan perked up from sleep.

"You goin'?" He asked groggily.

Ste laid on the smile. "Thought I'd piss off before you were forced to kick me out." It was easier after a one night stand to take the option away from them and leave before they had the chance to say: _Well…that was fun but…_

He sat up in bed and Ste looked away to stop reminded himself of being pressed fully against that warm chest of his. "Steven." He crooned his name. "Don't make this into nothing."

Ste shrugged. "It was a good night." His voice gave the mediocre review of five star sex.

"Yeah and _'We should do it again sometime'._ How many of those gems are you planning on spinning me this morning? Cut the bullshit."

He stood hands on hips at the foot of the bed and then loosened up realising that he looked like a lecturing wife. "No. You first. I wanna know what last night was to you. Properly."

When he smiled, a real one, it took over his whole face making him look like someone new. "Something I want to do again. With you, obviously. When you're not slagging me off to The Sun or got your arm round some bimbo."

He shook off a reluctant laugh.

"No one else gets an open ticket y'know so you should count yourself lucky."

"Honoured." He was snarky; Brendan liked the sharp attitude. The little flushing thrill he got from Brendan's comment surprised him and he turned from sight.

"You better leave me your number, ain't ringing your agent when I got a boner the size'a your pay cheque."

"Give over. You ain't that big." His tongue stuck out between his teeth. He had the ache to prove he was lying. "Giss ya personal phone then. You got a special code you put next to your shags?"

Brendan chucked him the phone and grumbled at him. "Most of 'em didn't have names let alone phone numbers."

"You're dead romantic you are." Ste said, turning on the phone. "Eighteen missed calls from your girlfriend."

He groaned a bit.

"What are you gonna tell her?" Ste said keying in his number, tongue out for concentration.

"I don't know," Brendan said, flipping the bedcover back and taking the phone off Ste, smiling that he'd entered the number under 'Steven'. "Palm her off with dinner."

Ste stroked his hands up the flank of Brendan's body and told him he better get going.

Since then they'd only managed an all-too-fleeting celebratory fuck when Brendan was still sweaty from a victory against Townhill and had driven straight across the city, post-match interview. Before it, Ste had indulged in a greasy Chinese - he imagined most of his team mates wouldn't dine in less than three Michelin stars these days – feet up on the sofa and lager in hand. He'd only felt the need to drink for comfort that night, not to numb. He hadn't heard from Brendan all day and hadn't expected to - the game took precedent on a Saturday, same for him - but there was that pang of adrenaline when Brendan stepped out on the pitch. For the first time in his life he cheered when United trounced the opposition.

Two hours later when he was deciding between a Danny Dyer movie and an early night, his door buzzed. He was always wary if someone had found their way straight on up without using the intercom as it meant one of his inconsiderate hipster neighbours had been careless enough to let them slip past. He let it buzz twice and then ambled over to the CCTV camera.

Brendan was zipped up in his team tracksuit when he pounced, kicking the door shut with his foot. His kisses felt like a vacuum – all that bodily power and force – and Ste felt empty on his feet, rocking into open mouthed embrace. He smelt of the pitch: misty rain and mud and his skin still thrummed from the roar of the crowd chanting his name.

_Fuck_, Ste groaned hazily into his mouth before Brendan took his bottom lip and sucked it in, tongues clashing again when Ste whined, slamming hands into his chest. That chest. He could wilt at the thought of it. As they separated, Ste pressed his nose against Brendan's moustache and smiled into him. Some hello. He saw Brendan's gaze flicker across his shoulder, cooing smugly against his ear.

"You've been rewatching my match?"

"The Townhill goalie is proper fit."

Brendan pushed him away with a scoff and unzipped his tracksuit, kit still underneath. Making himself at home then.

"You're not supposed to wear it home y'know." Ste said, resuming his drink and offering Brendan one. "Can't believe you're wearing that in my house! The cheek of it!"

Brendan murmured around the apartment in admiration. "I'll take it off if you want."

"Only if you promise to take a shower." Ste pointed at him like a nag.

"Does it include an appearance from the RAW Water model?"

"What you on about?"

Brendan indicated the framed poster on the wall that he was given by RAW when the commercial launched. One of the black and white ones, pouting with cascading water over erect nipples. He'd heard thousands of girls drink nothing but the stuff these days, drooling over the billboards of his body and getting on buses just because his image was plastered across it and cutting the adverts out of magazines. Brendan bordered on their levels of lust by the way he studied the photograph.

"Bit vain, isn't it? Having that hung on your wall?"

"It was a gift." Ste folded his arms.

"From that fella of yours?" Ste wondered what his tone of voice hinted at.

"From RAW." Ste watched him flick gum around his mouth, eyes transfixed. "You finished? Cos I am standing right here you know."

Brendan cocked his head to the side and sauntered forward, inhaling in study as he thumbed Ste's nipples through his t-shirt. "You've still not congratulated me."

"Was I meant to?" Ste's sarcasm lessened impact when his eyes sunk at the sweet circular motion of Brendan's thumbs. He still wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a compliment about his game. As a footballer he was still a knob. Sure, watching him he felt a clench inside of what seemed to be a schoolboy crush and his thighs in HD brought back exquisite memories, but he was nasty out there on the pitch – selfish. They barely discussed football in texts, unless it was a throwaway comment about training. Even though they shared the same professional world, it was outside the locked door where it couldn't interfere.

"You can make it up to me, Steven." He slipped his hand in Ste's hair and flicked the tips of it in his fingers.

"See, I read your manager's given you a sex ban. Sommit about no distractions. Nothing too strenuous." It had been splashed all over the papers that morning: The WAG ban. No sex for the first two months of the season, something about testosterone and focus. "Wouldn't wanna break that would ya?" Ste scrunched his nose, chin high and defiant in the air.

"No, maybe you're right," Brendan said taking a step back. "Maybe I'll get off then?" He jerked his thumb towards the door.

Ste caught him by the hem of the United kit. "Thought you liked breaking the rules." His finger brushed against the softly haired patch of tummy underneath the shirt and his stomach lurched.

Brendan stepped up close, breath sweet and minty on his lips. "And what rules would those be?"

He hooked his finger into the waistband of Brendan's shorts and chewed on his own bottom lip. He'd never been so obsessed in thought over a bloke before, even with Adam he hadn't been letting thoughts of him chase him around the field.

His eyes sparkled when he teased. "I don't think your manager would be too happy with you copping off with your rival now would 'e?"

"Who says you're my rival?" Brendan had walked him back so they were pressed up against the bathroom doorway now, its frame pressing into Ste's back.

"That's what the papers say," Ste said, laughter breathless as their mouths hovered close like the foreplay to a kiss.

Ste eyed Brendan's tongue as he talked. "Shouldn't believe everything you read. Like you and the Page Three girl up all night."

"You been researching me?"

Brendan's nose nuzzled his. "Keeping an eye on ya."

"Oh yeah?"

His moustache brushed his lip. "Yeah."

"So I'm a distraction?" Ste tutted and the space between them shortened when Brendan leans his arm on the door. His fingers screwed into the sponsors at the front of the shirt and the heat from him radiated to an aching degree that the need to see him naked grew and grew.

Brendan hummed against him in disagreement and traced a pencil thin line with his tongue across the opened arch of Ste's mouth. "Coach comes up to me and says 'Brady I dunno what's got into you, but keep it up. You're on fire'."

Ste dragged his thumb down into Brendan's pubic hair and smiled. He lent into Brendan's mouth and their tongues met silkily, with Brendan's hand behind, opening the door into the bathroom.

Brendan urged Ste into the open shower first, and they fought playfully in the water, Ste shrieking and Brendan pressing him bodily against the tiles. His eyes glazed over with lust, biting down into Ste's shoulder until he'd marked him possessively and coaxed him under the lashing water.

"I want the live show," Brendan said in a purr, stroking his throbbing dick and Ste letting the shower waterfall down his hard nipples, across the head of his cock. He taunted Brendan, teasing out his thirst with a flirtatiously slow drag of his fingertips down his own erection and watching him roll on a condom.

Ste's chest hitched with a violent gasp as Brendan hoisted him and slammed him against the wall, their mouths groaning together and Brendan positioning him awkwardly – all sharp angles rutting against the tiles – his hands tightly gripped into Brendan's wet hair. He jolted in pain at Brendan's first thrust, powered by the wait of weeks' desire, and then knees squeezed around his middle, head thrown back against the tiles and a low moan ripped from his lungs when pleasure thrummed through every fibre. Brendan's dirty mouth was worse than he'd heard in the changing rooms and it made him ripple in nervy laughter, moaning louder when Brendan's paced slowed and ground him into a rhythm that hit his spot every time. He just knew – and Ste didn't know how – exactly the pace to pick up and how to roll his hips until Ste was a hot, cumming mess.

They spread out on the sofa afterwards, dozy in towelling dressing robes with Match of the Day on in the background.

"Why the Park position?" Brendan said, arm around the back of the sofa and eyes locked on Ste.

"It's the only thing I've ever wanted, ever since I was a kid," Ste said, eyes brimming with memories of his childhood, grubbing kneed and thinking of his Michael Own mansion and 2.4 family, not thinking about how he'd never fully quench the happiness those dreams once had. "What about you, what's your big dream?"

Brendan shrugged a little and Ste grew ticklish when his fingers spiralled on his neck. "Dunno really. Just keep playing I guess. I've never thought much about the future. Nothing lasts long in this game, not when you're getting on like me. Maybe managing a team in ten years."

"What about Park?"

"I thought we weren't talking about work."

"You brought it up."

"Because I'm interested in you, Steven. I ain't nosing."

"You're in the running now, though."

"Not outta choice." His knuckles caressed the side of Ste's hair. "I won't take it from you, if that's what you're worried about."

Ste scoffed. "Don't matter anyway, I'm the last player people are talking about these days since you arrived."

Brendan sighed. "It's business. FA politics, managers, bullshit all of it." He drew Ste's face closer. "I know we gotta keep this on a real down low, but fuck if this ain't good. This is the real thing, you know?" He ran the tip of his nose up the length of Ste's.

"You know what would happen if we got caught? It don't even bear thinking about." Ste felt Brendan's hand slide underneath his robe.

"Nobody's watching now."

::: :::

"Are you gonna tell me who it is then?" Amy asked as they pulled up outside her house and the kids dosed in the back.

"No," Ste said, turning of the engine and unlocking the doors as if to signal the end of the conversation. "I've said too much already."

"No you haven't! All you've said is that you're seeing someone."

"It's better if you don't know trust me. It's bad enough with the two of us holding onto the secret without you having to keep it shut 'un all."

Amy helped him unload the car and woke the kids softly before inviting Ste inside for a tea.

"I've gotta head to the gym and try and catch up on the training that I've missed. I'm losing it Ames, at this rate I'm well off my targets."

"Yeah and carrying around this secret can't be helping much either."

It wasn't.

He wasn't just a few setbacks behind on his fitness targets, he was slipping out of step with the rest of his team and not just due to the delay in training from the injury. He felt his grip on the Park position slipping and the shift in his focus slipping to his personal life: Brendan Brady.

Everything about their affair was smearing his sense of identity and it was made even worse when just hours after agreeing to attend a charity event in London with Brendan (the prospect of a hotel away from home lead to a heated phone conversation with Brendan holed up in his car on a motorway services) he read a headline which made his stomach clench and blood clang loudly in his ears.

_Double Victory For Brady. Park Bosses Keen and Girlfriend Accepts Proposal! _


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Thanks again for all the lovely comments – I'm always excited to hear your thoughts and theories! Just so there's not any confusion – it'll become clear as you read – the first part of this chapter happens before the headline in the previous chapter._

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_Part Eight – Brendan_

To think, the evening had begun so well.

He'd left the gym feeling pumped and even though the team physiotherapist had scolded him the previous week for overdoing it, she gave him a round-cheeked smile and conceded that she was impressed when he'd slipped in a session after training. The gym was packed of an evening, but everyone there was so in their zone they hardly noticed him. He preferred the public gyms (now and again the sights it offered) rather than the clinical ones at the ground. He would be left alone, not bothered by the brain-dead chatter from the no-marks on the team, no distractions.

As he pounded the treadmill an email popped up from RAW forwarded by his management. He slowed the speed down to a walk in order to read it. His eyes scanned over the contents, honing in on the information that mattered to him. A weekend event in London, press and awards-evening for troubled youth, hospital visits – yadda yadda – the glow in his step came from the thought of spending the weekend with Steven, screw the good deeds. His popularity had gained such heights in recent months that he could cut a few ribbons, nick some booze and spend the rest of the event inside Steven and they'd still fawn over him. He responded to email with a simple: Count me in.

At the services he'd been stopped by a group of fans who all wanted photos and then he headed back to the car, coffee in one hand and replying to a text from Eileen in the other. She nagged more than ever, he just couldn't decide whether he was imagining it more because he wanted to get away from her, or she really was growing to be more of an irritant. He drove the car around the corner to a more secluded spot where the street lamps had buzzed out and there weren't any pikeys tucking into their KFCs.

"So, September," Brendan said, smiling down the phone.

"What about it?" Smug little fuck.

"I got a feeling you're gonna be busy."

He heard Ste clattering about on the other end in the kitchen. "Yeah, got some big games coming up, you know."

"Steven," Brendan said, his voice on the prowl.

Ste laughed. "What?"

The conversation paused and it became a comfort just to hear him breathe and snack on the other end. "When can I see ya?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling his legs bounce against the seat in a twitch.

"Can't," Ste said, pausing to gulp down a drink and sigh. Brendan imagined the pump of his throat and the glistening drips of water dampening his lips. "Got a big game on Saturday. Training every day til then."

"And what about after training?"

"Sleeping."

"Who with?"

"Funny."

"Not taking any girls out this week then, no?" Brendan looked at his wallet on the dashboard and the photo kept in it of him and Eileen tied up in a cuddle. The biggest hypocrite going.

"Wednesday," Ste said flippantly. "I don't fuck my covers though, do I Brendan?"

He sighed and let the coffee scold his mouth. "So I can't see ya?"

"You make it sound like I don't wanna!"

"Well, do you?"

"Yeah! You know I do. You're like everything I'm thinking about twenty-four-seven right now, but that ain't good, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"No."

He let the silence play out between them and his hand strayed to his groin, tapering his senses. "You been thinking about me today?"

"Thought about the charity thing," Ste said, not biting. "You going?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Love charity." His grin peppered through the call.

"As if you're thinking about that."

"What were you thinking about?" He shifted in his seat, letting his fingers murmur through his jogging bottoms.

Ste snuffled with a giggle. "What do you think?" Now he plays coy.

"Tell me."

"You're a pervert."

Brendan slipped his hand into his underwear, rolling his palm across his hardening dick. "You like that about me."

"Where are you?" Ste asked, suddenly jerking into life like he was ready to play.

"In the car at a services."

"I got time for a quickie. I could meet you."

Fuck. "I already told Eileen I'm on my way."

He heard Ste grumble and throw himself down on the sofa. "Don't matter then."

"I ain't letting you outta my sight when we get to London," Brendan said, loosening his clothes and pressing his eyes half-shut, fisting his dick to the sounds of Steven breathing. "You think you could take it?"

Steven hummed a little in appreciation. "I think I can manage."

"Good."

Ste played, flirting like the twist of hair in his fingers, knowing what that breathing down the line meant. His voice lowered to a sultry whisper. "I want you to fuck me all night til there's nothing left of me."

Brendan groaned. "Jesus –fuck!" Gasps choked through his lungs and he orgasmed, dick throbbing and overwhelmed with the need to touch Steven. He grabbed a tissue from the glove box and cleaned up. "Jesus, boy, I can't wait a week to see you."

"The game comes first Brendan, you know I can't."

"Send me a picture."

"Yeah cos that'll end up in the wrong hands, won't it?"

"Fine," he said, growing irritable. "I better go."

"Look, I've got a place in Dubai. I'll get Anne to come up with something – some excuse – give us a week to do that, and then you can have me all to yourself out there for a night, alright?"

"I can't come to yours for a night?"

"You really haven't figured out this fame thing yet, have you?"

::: :::

The lights were off when he parked at home. As he entered the reception hall, the gaudy chandelier winked at him and he called out for Eileen.

"I'm in the bedroom," she called, her voice echoing around their ludicrously sized house. He hated the houses she'd chosen, screaming distaste at every corner.

The room glowed softly when he entered and his stomach churned to see candles and petals adorning the bed. She sat up on her knees in the centre, the strap of her negligée slipping off her shoulder. He indicated to the shower, dying to dive straight in and hope she'd grow bored in the meantime and fall asleep but she shook her head and patted the bed beside her thighs.

It all became a blur then, because her face softened into seriousness and she took his hand and spoke for lengths about their past and future and breaking tradition, handing him a velvet box and saying four words that seemed crushingly inevitable.

"Course I will, darling. Course."

He didn't say it, he had no awareness of it. But it passed his lips and she threw her arms around him, knocking themselves horizontal.

"It's gonna be perfect," she said and he kissed her because she asked. She had to ask.

She peeled off her nightie, staring up at him. The dread subsided and the routine clicked like someone had pressed play, so his hand cupped her breast and he didn't look once at the new ring on his finger. It sat like hands around his throat.

"I know you've got the sex ban," Eileen said, touching his cock so light that it barely registered, "but I think we can make an exception."

::: :::

She wouldn't suck him off when they woke – she never did – not that his morning glory was her doing, but the consequence of a vivid dream of rimming Steven during a stadium cup final, the crowd seemed riveted rather than repulsed. He left Eileen sleeping and wanked off in the shower reliving his dream and perfecting it by adding the image of filling that torturous hole of his.

Danny Houston called as soon as he was out of the shower. First he congratulated him on the engagement. He'd almost have forgotten if it wasn't for the dead weight on his finger.

"Your beautiful bride-to-be spread it all over Twitter last night," Danny explained at Brendan's confusion when he knew. "We'll get a press release off you in a bit."

Brendan felt like the pressure gauge was spinning out of control like a kettle boiling over. He thought about Steven waking up to the news and tried hurrying Danny off the phone.

"And, even better news for us, I spoke to one of the reps from Park yesterday and they are keeping a close eye on you right now. They seem pretty impressed with everything you're doing. Definitely keen. I'm sure the papers will tell you more than I just have." Danny laughed, short sharp bursts of it.

He ended the call with mechanical disconnect and stared out the window onto a world he hated.

_Please call me. _

_I didn't propose to her._

_Park shit nothing to do with me. _

He got his hands on the laptop in the kitchen and the headlines cut through his stomach. Eileen's Instagram of her ring (the one she'd bought herself) was all over Twitter and the showbiz sites and they made the interest in him from Park sound like a dead set. His phone rang again, Kirsty from the press at Danny's offices and she wanted a quote from him.

"Can't it wait?" Brendan said, snapping at the girl as he phone buzzed in congratulations messages – not even a reply from Steven.

"Sorry, no can do. I've had the press on my back all morning wanting to hear from you."

Thirty minutes later his quote became mangled across the media outlets. _United player Brady thrilled to marry childhood sweetheart. Brendan Brady can't wait to commit to future wife. Brady ecstatic over engagement. _

"_Brendan Brady is quoted saying he "can't believe it" and that the future Mrs Brady is "eagerly planning" their big day, with Brady sounding overwhelmed with joy."_

He slammed the lid on the laptop and headed out into the back where he was close to ramming their gardener's shears down his throat after his cheerful congratulations. He took the furthest path from the house, heading for the tallest hedges where he knew he'd not be seen.

Steven picked up and Brendan's tone slipped out far too breezily. "Alright Steven?"

"Yeah great," he replied, voice over-saturated in pain and sarcasm. "I'm busy, what do you want?"

The sound of the gardener's mower drowned out the crushing feeling he had at Steven's tone. "I wanted to talk to ya. Explain."

"Explain? You don't need to explain anything. I got it loud and clear."

"Shit. Steven, quit acting like a baby will ya? Let me talk to you."

"What's there to say Brendan? I hope you're happy with your new wife and your new team. Leave me outta of it." He hung up, leaving Brendan cursing to a dead tone. What he couldn't tell from the barbed chill to him, was whether he was more hurt over the proposal or Park's interest.

He could feel it before it crept up on him and he was jumping into the car.

He was about to do something stupid.

::: :::

The heave of traffic mocked him on the drive and he sat pounding the steering wheel, sounding the horn and hurling abuse at every driver within ten feet of him. On the gates the security guard made him lower his shades before accepting who he was and letting him in with a confused nod. He sat in the car for a few moments before dialling Steven's number.

"Steven, I'm at your ground. Come and find me. We need to talk, okay?" He left a voicemail but after ten minutes hearing nothing, he headed into the building running on nothing but insanity.

He barely registered the girl on reception near swoon and told her he had business with Steven Hay and he need to talk with him.

"I think they're in the middle of training, sir. I can call Mr Fox and see if he can sort something." Warren Fox, City's manager and ex-Captain himself renowned for being a hard man would be a difficult man to persuade of anything.

"Tell him it's Brendan Brady, would you sweetheart?" The sweetheart did it, made the blush start at her throat. He watched her on the phone, jittering his hands and feet, picking up the scattered City branded items on the desk.

She ended the call and looked up at Brendan with a smile. "He'll be down shortly. Would you like me to find you a meeting room?"

Brendan had his feet propped on the table and a City club magazine in his hands when Ste stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him. He was reading up on Steven's statistics, toes curling with intrigue at the fresh faced photo of him when he first signed up.

"How dare you come here and demand to see me!" His nostrils flared, finger jabbing at him.

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Steven." Brendan placed the magazine down and sat up.

"You've got five minutes and never EVER interrupt my training again. Anyone'd think you're some kind of stalker trying't wreck my career." He refused to sit and paced the worn fraction of carpet by the door.

"And I told you, I'm not going to Park. I've got no intention to!"

"But they want _you_." His eyes grew watery as he pointed, red with anger or upset.

"Yeah and people don't always get what they want, do they?!" He stood now, level with Ste, hot anger sparking between them. "Like you, like me." Brendan pressed two salute fingers against Ste's chest, punctuated his words. "What could I do, Steven? She was always gonna be my wife sooner or later."

Ste pushed away from him. "You're messing with my head, you know that?"

Brendan grabbed onto his sleeve and pulled him so they were forehead to forehead, hand on the small of his back. "Don't walk away from me." His mouth arched into the air surrounding Ste's lips.

Ste shook his head, taking a step back and pointing to the corner of the room. "No," he said. "CCTV."

Coldness passed through him and he separated from Ste. "Don't you tell me it's over, Steven. Don't."

"It's better off."

"It ain't." Brendan thumped the table, making Ste jump. "I ain't."

Ste pressed his fists into his head. "Just-" He dragged his nails down his face.

"You don't know her. You're not hurtin' anyone."

"_You're_ hurting her."

Brendan expanded in anger. "What would you have me do, Steven? Get myself cured for fuck's sake. You think I ain't been praying to God since I sucked my first cock?! You know what I'm thinking of when she gets close? Huh? You! I'm thinking about what you feel like n' what you taste like and what I'd be doing to ya. You think when I've got a wedding ring on it'll all change?" He wrenched the ring from his finger and slammed it on the table. "She'll be Mrs Brady and I'll still be sucking cock."

Ste scoffed. "So if I say no, you'll just move onto the next bloke. I feel really special."

"You're not hearing me! It's you that I want! For god's sake, Steven. No one else fucking matters when you're in the room, alright?!"

The room fell silent, breaths thumping from his lungs like the rasp of a sprinter, he sprung forward, capturing Ste's face in his hands, heart rattling his ribs. To anyone watching the CCTV, they would have taken a second glance if that particular camera was in operation – which despite the red light, it wasn't – and Brendan took one long moment holding Steven in his gaze.

"I wanna kiss you."

But the inevitable reality sliced through the moment and they parted.

"I need to go."

"What about this?"

Ste closed his eyes, gripping the door handle. "I don't want to stop." He pulled it open and with a final, solemn glance back, he left Brendan alone in the room.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Sorry there's been such a wait for this part! I hope it's worth it! As usual I am loving all your comments and theories as to what might happen, I hope it's as exciting to read as it has been to plot and write! Look forward to hearing what you think about this new chapter!  
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_Part Nine – Ste_

Nothing quite beat the adrenaline high of a two-one victory that left the crowd buzzingly satisfied and the players hyped on their own success. The showers were full of chants and abusive songs and the warnings from Foxy not to get complacent. They were still under United in the league and the big games in September loomed, but the immediacy of a win coursed like a voltage shot around the changing room.

"Good lad, Ste," Warren said smacking Ste on the back as he circled the room reminding the lads who was boss. "That little blinder won't go unnoticed. You've upped your game this week, well done."

Scouse ruffled Ste's hair, cheering him on and started singing Park's anthem, pounding his chest like a zoo monkey.

"Give over," Ste said giving him a shove and zipping up his tracksuit, still a part of him looked forward to the write-ups in the Sunday papers. They volleyed between being his biggest critic to his most ardent fan and that result would trigger the later. He hoped for a fawning piece that would weigh the game in his favour.

"What's got into you this week?" Warren asked as he elbowed Ste into a conversation on the way out before they both headed for press interviews.

Ste shrugged, half an ear on the physio that was trying to stress to him the importance of having his calf massaged. He took a waterbottle from one of the guys handing them out and scraped together a rough answer for Warren. A new training programme, a better diet, he'd made time to spend an afternoon with the kids.

"And that curvy lass I saw you with last Wednesday!" He whistled. "Between you and me if I wasn't a married man I'd be on that." He laughed. "You're a lucky man Ste, and listen if it's a night between her pair of tits that's getting you scoring then you keep at it."

Kimmie Britt - the girl Ste had wined and dined for two weeks, the daughter of a record producer and soapstar who just about had the right look to play the clichéd soap vixen – was a lesbian. Handy for her that she shared the same PR agent as Ste and he needed someone more long term. A trust grew between them, bound by the same secrets and double lives.

"How often do you have to do this shit?" she'd asked, stabbing a crab's leg with a fork. She'd been unimpressed with The Bell, even though it was the restaurant all the photographers skulked around. She was a certified newbie to the bearding world, usually no one cared less about women's secret lives if they were TV stars – you had to be a cock-loving man's man for some journalist to care in the name of public interest – and she'd been living happily in loved-up secrecy before her lover became her ex and wanted cold cash.

"Now and again," Ste said, pouring her more wine and making sure no one else was in ear shot. He leant over the table and squeezed her hand for show. "They all know it's bollocks but it's about the public, innit."

"It doesn't affect your game," she said, thinking about the producer's view that their star man-eater character had to be believable as one.

Ste raised his eyebrows. "It would. I'm not Ste Hay on the pitch or in the changing rooms or on the telly. I'm _City player_ _Ste Hay_. You ain't heard half the abuse a bloke would get. The fans'd fucking rather you were a rapist than gay. Team mates too."

"So they don't know?"

"None of 'em do," Ste said taking another bread roll because it was carb season.

"One of them might be…" she said, a sudden glint of excitement under the heavy eyeliner.

Ste laughed. "No."

"Oh because you're the only gay in football!" She waved her hands around dramatically like she was accepting her Best Bitch gong all over again.

Ste had slumped with no answer, attention shrinking to his plate thinking about all the calls from Brendan he'd let go to voicemail after the charged encounter at the training ground.

And on that Saturday, Ste knew exactly why his game was so good, why the papers would be singing glories tales of his impressive performance, why his manager Mark would be calling him in for a praiseworthy meeting on Monday and why Park would start to remember his name. Because he'd severed Brendan from his life.

It hadn't exactly been intentional to cut him out, but even the thought of him led to a clumsy pass or an uncoordinated kick. The control slipped away from him just like the ball and he thought, if he couldn't keep a handle on his game and his successes then how could he expect to keep a lid on his feelings for Brendan? He'd let it become too close, given it too much important. It was a fling. If Brendan had been like Adam, out of the public eye and not so jammed in the closet he was marrying a woman, then maybe they could have let it grow into something more than sex. The danger being, the more he let Brendan enter his thoughts, the more he wanted more than just a fling. And that was ludicrous, beyond all possibility. So he rejected his calls. Every last one.

Mark saw straight through his over-glossed optimism on the Monday morning after the match. He put away the papers that triumphed Ste and folded his hands across the desk. Essentially Mark was one of the good guys, but he was also just a middle class, middle of the road miser who could relax in his own easy, PR free lifestyle.

Ste nodded in all the right places, grinned like the toothy lad who signed up for City and tried to push out the chatter of the girls he'd overheard in reception talking about Eileen Brady's wedding plans. She was to have the same bubble Cinderella carriage as Jordan and a knee high dress designed by Victoria Beckham. Heat magazine had printed all the exclusives. The receptionists gossiped over Eileen's romantic gushings about her husband to be in her latest opinion column. Brendan had been telling the truth when he'd said the proposal had all been Eileen's doing.

"What's happening outside of the game, Ste?" Mark said, doing that thing with his eyes where he made them warm with concern. "You seem…I can't put my finger on it, but troubled." Mark flicked to another newspaper. "How's the arrangement going with Kimmie?"

"It's fine. She seems like a laugh actually."

"I spoke to Anne on the phone and she said you'd planned to make this a long term arrangement?" Mark never pressed for the gory details but he was the locksmith and the caretaker of all secrets.

He made Ste feel worse by reminding him of his schoolboy naivety. "I wanted something in place because I was seeing someone and I thought it might be a regular thing. But it's not, it's –"

"You know that there's no risk of security breaches Ste. You're free to do as you please, with whomever you please. Within reason, of course. It's what you pay us for, after all!" His cheeks squeezed purple when he laughed softly.

"I know. I just don't think it's good for my head – or the game – to be getting involved in anything too risky. Kimmie was there because I thought things with this guy were getting…"

"Serious?"

"Good. Like, I wanted it to keep with him, but it's too messy and it's an important season, innit?"

Mark nodded. He looked at the clock, sensing the meeting end was approaching. "Ste, you know I'm a phone call away. Kimmie's a good option, she needs something longer term for now until we get the old Glenn Close off her back," he paused, seeing Ste's confusion at the analogy – "Bunny Boiler," he said. He gave Ste a gentle smile. "You can't stay celibate, Ste, so if you think you want to see him again or anyone else, then you've got Kimmie there to date if and when."

By the door on leaving, Ste asked, because it was permanently on his mind: "Have you heard anything from Park?"

"I'm having lunch with Patrick Blake today, I'll be sure to see what he thinks about you on the sly." Mark gave Ste a wink, shaking his hand. Business lunches with the Park boss was a good start and Ste left feeling happier, refusing to let his mood skin when he passed the girls in reception again.

He drove to the shopping centre, hoodie and baseball cap disguised, to buy treats for the kids, knowing he would be mobbed by fans there but hoping the ego boost would kick start his confidence. He didn't need the warm armed comfort of Brendan's embrace. He could live without the affection and the head rolling orgasms.

The mall was a little quieter owing to the schools being open again, but there was a noisy gathering around a new Ann Summers and Ste glanced over with a smirk, wondering which local celeb had been roped into the tape cutting. The press outnumbered the customers and then he saw her, glossy brunette hair and oversized sunglasses bought on her boyfriend's paycheque: Eileen Brady.

Ste watched her for a moment, her attractive smile and petite figure, her enthusiasm for the girls that flocked around her for photos. He hated her. Despised her. The ring on her finger was ugly. His insides blackened and he couldn't face seeing anyone and hid away immediately into the car and drove home.

He considered heading out of Manchester, slumping down into his London flat and staying there until training on Wednesday, but he couldn't face the long lonely drive trapped with the radio of love songs and his own thoughts.

If only he'd taken that choice, it would have made things so much simpler, because when he pulled into the enclosed car park, Brendan was waiting for him.

"You got a problem, Steven?" he said, shoving Ste as he hurled towards him out of the car.

Ste gripped his wrists and pushed him back. "Just stay away, stay away from me, alright?!" Ste had his key in the door, fingers on the keypad but Brendan was forcing his way past, muscling through.

"Why you been ignoring my calls, huh?!" His pupils were dark pinpricks in bloodshot eyes. A man on the edge.

Ste hesitated in front of the lift, before taking the stairs. He didn't look at Brendan, didn't acknowledge him.

"Last week you wanted me!" Brendan gripped Ste's clothes, hurling him from one step to another unbalanced.

"Get OFF me!" Ste gritted his teeth, pressing ahead.

Even outside his door, Brendan wasn't leaving. He pushed in front of the door, standing astride and clutching Ste's shoulders in a vice. "You think you're better without me but you're not."

"Fuck off."

He grabbed the door keys from Ste's hand sharply and threw them down the stairs.

"What the fuck did you do that for?"

Brendan scratched Ste's face at the force of pulling him into a kiss, his lips burned Ste's with a bruising pressure. Ste broke the grip of Brendan's mouth, destroying the heat and wiping his lips with a furious darkness in his eyes.

"Go and wreck someone else's life. I've worked too long and too hard for you to waltz in 'ere and muck things up for me!" Ste's voice wavered, tears collecting in his eyes.

Brendan's colour faded and his palms flattened against Ste's chest. He dragged them down, shaking his head. "No. No."

Ste's head hung, the expanding doubt decaying his earlier buoyancy. "I saw Eileen."

"She's nothing. She's –"

"She's gonna be your wife."

Brendan's hands claimed the miserable slope of Ste's cheek, thumbs blotting the curve of Ste's lower lip. Ste felt his body sag, like he was losing the battle.

"She's nothing."

Ste looked into Brendan's gaze, dreaming of another world where he was just a cheater and they were just two star crossed lovers without the weight of anything more on their back. Brendan's forehead pressed against him and he flooded with longing.

"I need you, Steven. I need you."

Brendan's lips returned to him, steering him into an open motion, an acceptance of the inevitable, the unstoppable. Brendan's stubble scraped against Ste's skin, reporting the days he'd spent unkempt and tightly coiled in his own angst-ridden thoughts.

"You can't be here," Ste said when they eventually parted and Brendan's trainers squeaking on the corridor flooring reminded them of how exposed they were.

From his pockets Brendan produced two plane tickets. Dubai. "We leave Saturday night," he said, thumbing Ste's hair back from his forehead.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Love and thanks for all the kind comments! Hope you enjoy part ten and all its drama!_

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_Part Ten – Brendan_

Brendan had his lips open across Ste's bare shoulder.

"We've got to stop doing this, you know," Ste said with a sigh.

Brendan looked across the bedroom, where the blinds were pulled back a fold and Ste's apartment looked across the milky evening skies. Manchester thrummed in the distance like always.

"Doing what?" Brendan asked hazily, sliding Ste onto his side and looping his leg over him. His fingers drifted along the sweep of Ste's forearm.

"This!" Ste said, turning his head away from the pillow and back to Brendan. "Fighting and then this. And you can't come here again. Never."

Brendan cradled Ste's arse cheeks in his hand, running the edges of his teeth against the nape of his neck. He tasted delicately salty. There was a bruise on the back of Ste's thigh which he hadn't noticed in their rolling hipped sex earlier; he touched it. "Was this that nasty tackle with Gauire?"

"Yeah," he said, huffing and batting Brendan's hand away. "Stop trying to finger me and talk to me properly."

Brendan tutted and rolled onto his back unsatisfied. He stretched his arms under his head.

"You watched my game?" Ste said, warming with affection. He rested his palm flat on Brendan's chest, letting the hairs settle like tuffs of wild grass between his fingers.

He rolled his eyes, not wanting to fall for Ste's ego stroking. "I watch all your games, you know I do." Ste kissed him softly, lips making puffy plucking sounds as he did. "I had to see you."

Ste propped up on his palms. "What if someone catches you? Or gets a glimpse of your car? You're an idiot."

"I'm the idiot? How else was I supposed to see you? And don't tell me to call your fucking agent to book an appointment, Steven."

He threw himself upright, sitting there cross-armed and face flecked with anger. "We can't have a relationship Brendan!" He raised his arms and catapulted them down again in exasperation. "We can barely have an affair!"

Brendan took a hold of his shoulders. "What are you talkin' about? You and me works. It just works. You've got that girl of yours and I've got Eileen. That's the way it has to be. You think I want all the papers on me back about the wedding? And I've got her in me ear about the centre pieces and fucking Danny Houston on me about this and that. I wanna play my games and I want you. Simple as."

Ste shook his head, empty laughter on his lips dying to something more serious. "You're kidding yourself." He hung his head, playing with a loose trail of cotton from the duvet. "I don't think Dubai's a good idea right now. Play's going great and – "

"You think I'll mess it all up for you?"

Brendan watched him shrug, eyes shifting awkwardly to the side.

"For fuck's sake Steven! You've just got Sport's Personality, you're a shoe-in for the captain position – you gonna sell your soul to get the Park transfer?!" Brendan felt the levels of his irrationality, his unreasonable demands, fluctuating over his grip. Next he'd be asking Steven to swear himself to him when in six months' time he was due to be marrying Eileen. And in seven months' she'd be expecting him to give her a baby.

"I can't see straight when I'm with you," Ste said with a sudden sadness distressing his face.

"I can't see anything when you're not."

Brendan fixed him with his intense eyes, his expression screaming for acceptance. He couldn't go a minute without thinking of Steven, like someone had burnt him into his blood, like a scar he couldn't resist scratching open. The time apart had eaten him up, made his affection for Eileen wilt and blacken into despising her.

Ste looked wounded, but not fearful of Brendan's exclamation. His hand moved up to his face and pressed his mouth upon him, letting Brendan pull him down into an embrace. Brendan buried his face into Steven's neck and breathed deep, clawing him close. He needed that. He needed the reassurance, needed to know Steven wasn't running from him. Needed Steven's fingers smoothing the dark base of his hair.

Their groins collided and Brendan took natural control, groping them together, groaning in the heat of Steven's moans rolling coquettishly off his tongue. He kissed along his jaw, mumbling across his mouth. "Turn over," he said.

Ste's usual boyish gleam of excitement didn't filter his eyes bright, he touched Brendan's face with tenderness, seriousness and before rolling, reached for a condom – opening and easing it onto Brendan. They shared a long kiss, Brendan's mouth stroked by the whisper of Ste's tongue, making the half-stunted – _unf_ – of a moan. He pushed Ste onto his side, kissing his spine.

"You good?" he asked, lining the head of his cock with Ste's entrance.

Ste's reply muffled into the pillow. He was still slicked from earlier, if tender. "Slow," he said.

He rocked gently into him, the twist of his hips causing the persistent grazing of Ste's g-spot. The room swelled with low panting and heavy breathing, Ste's pitchy whines as his fingers tangled the bed covers. Brendan's murmurs vibrated like a tide of thunder under Ste's lobe and he reached to stroke Ste's dick, never tiring of his simple needs – like the underside of his balls being thumbed like the chin of a cat. Sweat shivered through him like a new gloss of paint and Brendan pressed his forehead against the back of his head; they'd never been closer.

Ste came into his hand and he tasted him before wrapping arms around him and squeezing him too tight. Steven's walls tightened and Brendan took his hips, using his body to drag an orgasm out of himself. He looked so beautiful: face pressed in to the pillow, half a cry widening his mouth and the _slapslapslap_ of flesh against flesh.

::: :::

Ste agreed to the Dubai trip: he could square things with Anne in no time, but Brendan's fabrication would be his own to sort. It would have to be something he could appease Danny with and the press came hand in hand with that.

The thought of forming an excuse migraned through his mind on the journey home, lightened somewhat with a text from Steven lighting up the car.

_All sorted with A. Don't wanna keep focusing on the bad. Just want more of u, less of the stress._

Brendan dropped his keys on the side when he got home, Eileen called out her whereabouts – in the kitchen – and he found her there, laptop open and boxes from Ann Summers littering the countertops.

"How did the thing go?" Brendan said, clicking his fingers trying to remember what exactly Ann Summers had wanted her for. He didn't have any curiosity to peer into the bags and boxes.

"Grand," she said, folding down the lid of the laptop. "Bren, what have you been buying tickets to Dubai for?" Her face froze and then she was grinning. "I'm sorry that I ruined the surprise but I saw it in your History and I just couldn't help myself looking!" She jumped up from the stool, hands clenching with excitement. "Dubai, Brendan!"

Brendan swallowed hard, easing her down from her enthusiasm, shushing with his palms. "Hold on a second, Eileen will you?" He scratched the back of his neck. "The tickets. They're not for us."

Her mouth tightened. "You ordered two. For the weekend."

"I know," he said. "And that's all it is, a quick stop over. It's a work thing, a promotion thing."

She sank back to the stool, arms jutting at the corners where she folded them. "This hotel they're – well – they're wanting big names you see, top quality guests and they need the promotion. So I got the invite, just for the night. Me and – you know that lad from City, Ste – well, him. Ste's PR company they figure it'd be good for the hotel, good for our reps after our little set-two and the charity they –"

Her eyes clicked over Brendan. "What's the damn charity got to do with anything? You're supposed to be here with me visiting the wedding venues."

"You know I'd marry you on some poxy campsite Eileen."

"Charming," she said with a scoff.

"I meant – I love the bones of ya. And it won't matter where we have the wedding 'cos I'll love you no matter what," Brendan said. He stepped around the counter which separated them and cupped her face. The best lies were told with a kiss where she wouldn't see his eyes. Over her shoulder he looked into their characterless house, piecing together the rest of the story.

"I was gonna surprise you when I got back, but you ruined it now so I've gotta tell ya," he said.

"What?"

"Well I figured I'd make the most of it while I'm out there and buy us one of those fancy beachside apartments you're always banging on about." Half a lie. He'd already put down the deposit as somewhere guarded he could take Steven off season.

Eileen's squeal pierced his eardrum and he rested her down back onto the seat. The headache that laced into him had grown heavy enough that the early night he claimed he needed didn't involve her Ann Summers goodie bags, which she spent the rest of the night going through and disposing of the things she didn't like the look of. Unsurprisingly leaving her obliviously excited by a loot that would be the greatest turn off for Brendan.

::: :::

Dubai's heat was oppressive and he'd have hated every second off it if it weren't for the air conditioned everything keeping the environment less than hellish. Like Anne had arranged, photo opportunities – paparazzi included – at new hotels made the perfect story and the photographers were there for that and only that. They weren't aware of the staggering priced apartment overlooking the water bought in an alias name and home to the biggest scandal which could ever hit international press.

They didn't leave the apartment. Not even to eat. Brendan had asked specifically for a well-stocked fridge and he had the money to make those kinds of demands.

"What did you tell Anne?" Brendan asked, towel around his waist as he watched Ste picking at grapes, elbows on the counter without a stitch on him. Barely a moment in the sun and he was already honey glazed.

"Well I didn't tell her the truth," Ste said, popping grapes into his mouth and letting the juice bulge out. Brendan had licked it from his lips when he'd first caught him doing it and they'd ended in a sweetly sticky tangle just after Brendan had showered.

"I told her that I was seeing someone and he had an apartment out here. She said '_Ugh cliché'_" Ste said and Brendan could almost picture her just from Ste's impression even though he'd never met her. "And then I said you and I were _friends _– nothing like that, like she covers up the biggest secrets and can't even figure stuff out – but that you were having a bit on the side and wanted to bring _her_ out here too without any hassle."

Brendan grimaced a little, imagining it working its way back to Eileen.

"It won't get out that your cheating and even if it does, would that be so bad?" Ste faltered a little, twinging over his words and continued. "Plus it seems more like a real thing – the hotel thing – if there's two of us, don't it?"

Brendan's eyebrows lifted. "If you say so. At least if anyone finds out, at least I'll just be cheating on my fiancé with another woman."

"Yeah no need for the rainbow flag yet," Ste said teasing. He walked over to Brendan, who sat downtrodden on the edge of the sofa, and wrapped his legs over him; sat astride. "We weren't gonna do this, remember?" Ste said rubbing his lips across Brendan's.

Brendan's thumbs tapered over Ste's pubic hair and then eased all fingertips down the length of his dick. "What were we gonna do?" Brendan said, catching Ste's upper lip with his tongue.

Ste balanced with one arm around Brendan's neck and the other unknotting the opening of his towel. "Hmmm," Ste said playfully then yelping as Brendan hands squeezed his arse.

Brendan felt the pressing of his erection when Ste managed to de-towel him and saw the lad's mouth twitch in amusement. "You don't hang around, do ya?" he said.

"With you grinding on my lap? What do you think I'm made of?" His words stuttered through kisses, some short and noisy, others lengthened and full of desire game-plans. "You gonna do something with it?" Brendan had his eye on him throughout the fruit tasting; he wasn't as innocent as those eyes made people think. It wasn't just aggression he had locked up inside, there was a lust like no other.

He didn't need anything else as a hint. His hips spiralled, jagged movements where their balls touched and his little ohh'd mouth got the biting treatment from Brendan and his index finger dragged right into the valley of his arse and down. He even spun around for Brendan's pleasure, just to grind against him like a scratching post and then down onto his knees, on the cold stone flooring and didn't blink at the immediate deep throat.

Brendan hissed through his teeth, tongue snarled inside and hand rubbing Ste's shoulder blades where the aircon had started to make him shivery. He sank his mouth head to base almost like a machine, human only for his flirty little glances and murmured vibrations of pleasure across his tongue. Brendan pressed gently on the crown of his head, hair all flat from where the Jacuzzi had washed out the product, and grunted when Ste's lips stopped their wet suckling of the head of his cock and it was the darkness of his throat encasing him instead.

Brendan could see out of the corner of his heavy lidded eye that Steven's phone was flashing, on silent, with a call. But he wouldn't tell him, not now. It wasn't important, whoever it was. And Steven was loving it, tonguing him with caved cheeks. He wasn't about to interrupt the fun.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Sorry the wait has been so long for this chapter. Thanks for all the support, comments and speculation so far – I love reading it! This is a bit of a longer chapter and a dramatic one. Enjoy!_

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_Part Eleven – Ste_

Ste heard him grumble. "You taste like suncream." His stubble scratched on the backs of Ste's thighs as they glowed in the hot afternoon sun.

Lowering his sunglasses onto the tip of his nose, Ste looked over his shoulder, in an awkward angle, at Brendan. "You were the one who didn't want me burning anywhere!" Brendan conceded this with a smirked mouth and Ste lost focus as Brendan's head dipped down again, tongue criss-crossing kisses across his behind.

Straight from the living area blow job, Ste had jumped eagerly onto a sunbed to soak up the last of the day's warmth before they headed back in the morning and he laid out, bare, on his stomach. For a spot of playful torture, Brendan – illuminated in his pasty white - had squeezed cold sun cream onto Ste's spine, leaving him shrieking. When it warmed, Ste instructed him to rub it in and basked in Brendan's surprising massage skill. No sports massage had quite given him the pleasure Brendan's hands could.

Time clung to the moment like it was never ending. Ste could close his eyes and imagine a life without the outside existing. For that while, together, it felt like an ideal fantasy come true. Nothing could separate them; no one could interrupt. A fear didn't linger in the backdrop. The reality of fame and notoriety didn't feel like a leash on the everyday and a barrier to freedom. It didn't pressure his mind at all – the world outside the apartment stopped.

Brendan's hands and mouth had wandered until he'd squeezed Ste's sun-lotioned backside and made his tongue drag across Ste's opening. His body curled against Brendan's motions, pawing softly at the sunbed, murmuring at the way Brendan's rough growls translated into immediate pleasure with the vibration. Somehow, more than ever, it felt like Brendan was made for him. Clichés aside, Brendan's perceptive way of knowing what he needed, seemed to steer him into satisfaction every time.

They ended in an embrace, with Ste turning over, beckoning Brendan into kissing and easing their bodies together. Nothing was rushed in this moment and the sun petered out under the horizon.

Ste headed to the bathroom later, sliding on a robe and noticed his phone was lit up with a string of missed calls from Warren Fox. When Brendan came to make dinner, Ste mentioned it and he shrugged, trying to distract him with a list of food options. Ste was quick to shush him and returned Warren's call.

"I hear you've taken a trip to Dubai for the weekend," Warren said. His London home sounding as far away as it was. "Very nice."

Ste appeased him with a laugh before disappearing to the bedroom to speak to Warren in private. It wasn't the cloak and dangers conversation that would need sound-proofing but blurring the two lives put him on edge and the last thing he wanted was to wreck their last hours there. He couldn't look at Brendan when he talked business, it messed with his head too much; priorities blurred.

"I saw you in the papers the other week with that soap girl again. I bet she looks good in a bikini out there!" Warren's meaty laugh rung out through the bedroom of strewn clothes and messed sheets.

Ste could feel his persona slicing its way to the top. "Yeah like you wouldn't believe."

"So the reason I called," Warren said. Ste imagined him straightening up in a solid office chair, trophies and celebratory articles surrounding him. "I'm calling a press meeting first thing Monday – so you need to be home Sunday night so we can talk face to face – but your mate Darren Osborne is pushing ahead with the retirement so we thought it'd be the right time to give his captaincy to someone else."

Ste held his breath, sitting on the end of the bed as he waited for those inevitable words.

"I'm making you captain from Monday," Warren said, pausing to let the words swell in meaning. "Okay?"

Ste gabbled, breathless in the realisation. "Mate that's…Warren thank you so much. It's an honour and –"

"Hey save the big speeches for Monday will you?" Warren said warmly. "I know how much it means to you, so don't mess me around kid. I want every game to be your best from now on. No distractions. Give that Kimmie girl a vibrator and no more last minute flights to Dubai – understand?"

"Yeah, yeah of course."

"And listen – Mark, your agent's, already been told and he called me earlier with more good news, although I expect he'll be in touch later. If things go good then, well…I might be losing you come Transfer Deadline Day. No guarantees, but we think Park are going to put together an offer. The captain position will help with that."

"Seriously?"

"Would I shit around over something like this?"

Ste had never experienced the sensation of being lost for words, not when his world escalated around him and he was caught in a whirlwind of publicity; not when Amy told him about her pregnancy when they were still in school uniform and he had started to get feelings for blokes; not after Brendan had kissed him for the first time and everything drowned in complications. This was everything he'd ever wanted handed over to him. Of course, he'd done the work for it and made the sacrifices but it was finally in his clutches.

He realised Warren had more to say and he wasn't one to mince his words. "And listen, don't worry about Brady stepping on your toes. He's a solid player but I think Park are under the impression he's more about the fame than the game if you know what I mean."

Ste didn't. His face flamed hot, with Brendan just metres away in the kitchen. "Like?" It felt like a betrayal to even be discussing him.

"Ah you know – comes over to England with that trophy woman of his, and by all accounts she's really scraping the barrel to try and make a name for herself. Well you two have had your differences, you must know what he's like."

Ste paused to swallow. "Nah he's not like that. We've had our troubles, like, but he's…"

Warren sighed on the other end, growing uninterested. "Anyway. Brady's not got the head for Park, you've got yours on straight and we're all counting on you to make us proud Ste."

When the call ended, Ste sat in the silence expecting to be caught up in elation but instead feeling a sense of dread tighten his muscles when Warren talked about Park's lack of faith in Brendan. It wasn't as if being in competition was something either wanted, but to see Brendan's popularity wane didn't feel the relief it once might have. He pushed it from his mind, urging himself to focus on the captain position and what that meant for his future on the field. He imagined the little boy of seven hands around the TV set wishing to be part of one of the big teams, scoring goal after goal and holding a cup high up to the crowds after a win. Next to nothing matched that feeling. It was all he'd ever wanted.

He picked himself up and loitered in the doorway, watching Brendan attempt to concentrate on the culinary task. He smiled realising he was right about an earlier assumption: Brendan was a hopeless cook. He jumped back as fat spat at him, yelping, and looked up at Ste's snigger.

"You could give us a hand!"

"Where's the fun in that?" Ste said. He came up behind Brendan and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. It was an act of affection reserved by couples bonded over years of domesticity, not two men struggling against the tide, doomed to sink.

Brendan looked at him and asked. "What was that for?"

Ste kept his back to the counter, fidgeting with his fingers. Sooner or later they wouldn't be doing this anymore. And they couldn't be. It wasn't the cheating or the lying or the sneaking around – it wasn't about anyone else's feelings. He couldn't keep doing this to himself; torturing himself with a future that was impossible.

"I wish we could stay here forever, y'know," Ste said, hopping up onto the counter and seeing the disastrous state of Brendan's fried muck of foods he was destroying.

Brendan nodded, not picking up on Ste's solemn tone. "We can come back when the season's over. Make a week of it."

"Yeah," Ste said softly, not letting himself look at Brendan and lie to his face.

"What was your phone call about?" Brendan said, jabbing at his pan with a spatula.

Ste grinned, brightness leaking from his eyes. "I'm being made Captain," he said.

Brendan dropped the utensil, turning to face him. His eyes got bigger and bluer in his surprise. "You what?"

Ste jumped down from the counter. "Captain," he said again, before Brendan ripped his breath away by crushing him into a kiss – hard and broken through smiles.

"Captain? Captain!" Ste got kissed again, pressing his lips together after as they continued to tingle.

And they spent the last evening in Dubai celebrating, Ste trampling over his doubts with his mind on Brendan's body. He focused on memorising every inch of his skin, the heat and smell of him. The way his smile made him feel on the inside. These would be things to remember and not forget. These would be the things to miss but not to regret. Memories live longer than reality, particularly when the reality could never be.

::: :::

He heard from Mark immediately after the press conference on the Monday. Ste was still aglow with the camera lights and the endless questions. Once again he felt at the centre of the club and back in the papers for the right reasons. Thanks to Anne's careful management, the announcement hadn't leaked beforehand, despite all the press second guessing at what the conference would be about. He suspected a few snide comments were thrown that this was his grand coming out speech, but Warren did most of the speaking and let Ste sit beside him, looking sharp and tanned and at ease.

Fans didn't want to lose Darren from the team but his leaving had been signposted for months and Ste stepping into his place as Captain seemed like a popular decision. He travelled to meet Kimmie for a celebratory lunch, reading articles on the way about fans' response when Mark called.

"Congratulations," he said, grinning through his tone. Ste thanked him and waited for him to continue, having already read his text about further good news. "Fox has already told you things are looking positive on the Park front?"

Ste looked out the window of the taxi, catching sight of one of his billboards and smiling to himself as he remembered Brendan's explicit enthusiasm for the campaign.

"Yeah, I'm made up."

"Good. I'm really pleased for you Ste. You could be looking at a hefty sum if things go the way we expect," Mark said, a subtle hint that he'd expect a pay rise too. "And now that I've got you on the phone, we've had modelling interest."

Ste smirked a little; modelling had been the last thing on his mind when he'd started playing professionally. "Go on, give us a laugh."

He could hear Mark smiling as he spoke. "Underwear. Boxer shorts – you know the drill. It's a charity thing again, Calvin's raising money with RAW or something like it. I only skimmed the email. But it's you they want. Girls'll be buying them for their boyfriend hoping they'll get your body too."

Ste shook his head, laughing at Mark's humour. "Alright then, I'll do it."

"I'll get Anne to forward you the details and pass on the okay," Mark wound up the phonecall – he was a busy man – Ste could hear it in his voice. "Oh – and there's actually a nice travel piece in the Mail with you and Brendan Brady about the hotel you were over there for."

When Mark ended the call, Ste looked up the article and accompanying photos on his iPad as the taxi drew to a traffic standstill. He heard a news item on the radio about him and the cabbie saved his modesty and turned it down low. The full photos filled the screen and his heart clamped looking at Brendan's effortless cool nonchalance – shades on and tight expression. It flooded Ste with thoughts of the weekend and he was struck with an immediate urge to see him.

::: :::

He broke all the usual rules. He dumped the scheduled lunch with Kimmie and met Brendan in a public place – even though they were both dressed in the usual disguise uniforms of sunglasses, and in his case, a hoodie – for a lunch. It didn't even give him the same level of fear when they were caught entering the restaurant with photographers on the steps calling their names and wanting to know Ste's off record reaction to his promotion. He paused for them for a moment, telling them his reaction was all over twitter: "I'm buzzing, mate."

They took a table in the corner away from the windows and door. Brendan sat on edge still. "What's with you?" he asked Ste, surprised by the change in attitude.

Ste pushed the drinks menu at him. "I'm 'appy. Don't you want me to be happy?"

Brendan couldn't answer because a waitress arrived to take their drinks order and didn't baulk once at two beers and a bottle of the best champagne at five hundred a pop. Waitresses in restaurants like the one they were sat in were tipped exceptionally for their indiscretion at greed and gaud.

Ste touched his knee under the table and Brendan jerked away from him like a hand in a fire. He leant on his elbow, hand part-covering his face. "You gonna tell me what this is all about?"

"Did you see the press conference?" Ste said, batting away Brendan's twitchiness with his adrenaline fuelled perky attitude.

"Of course I did. You know I did." His smile didn't reach his eyes and he busied himself with a piece of all too fancy bread from a complimentary plate in front of them. The waitress dropped off the drinks and he lowered his voice when she disappeared. "I thought we couldn't meet in public."

"I wanted to celebrate. With _you_," Ste said, mouth small a surly. He forced their glasses to clink together and swallowed back a mouth of its bitterness. "If you didn't want to see me, you didn't have to come." When he'd called Brendan, he'd been with Eileen looking round a hotel as a prospective wedding venue. Ste had heard her in the background asking about menus and the jealousy had hit him like a wall and it made him want to secure time with Brendan even more.

Brendan grimaced at the champers. "I wanted to see ya. I always do, don't I? I just didn't expect the goddamn vultures documenting it."

Ste held the drink to his lips. "It's alright, you've been looking at wedding venues, I don't think they'll guess we're shagging." He tipped the liquid back until the glass was empty.

Silence chalked the space between them until the food order was taken and they were left undisturbed for quarter of an hour. Ste had softened and Brendan had loosened up a bit in the knowledge no one was busy watching or eavesdropping.

"I know the whole world has been singing your praises since the news broke this morning, but I'm proud'a you," Brendan said, fingers rearranging the cutlery.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ste bowed his head, taking a sip of beer. Compliments stopped being meaningful when they were drilled out in robotic form or tied to hero worship or idolising a team. But coming from Brendan they fell on new acceptance.

"And for the pants things. I'm looking forward to seeing you in your pants." Brendan couldn't suppress the grin, laughing more at Ste's embarrassed head shake.

"You're just bitter they ain't asked you," Ste said, scrunching up his face.

Brendan shrugged. "I ain't complaining. I just hope they've got some socks to pad you out."

Ste tossed the remains of his bread roll at Brendan's head.

::: :::

_BRADY AND HAY END RIVALRY FOR BROMANCE_

_City and United fans might spend Saturdays at loggerheads but the same can't be said for rival team mates Brendan Brady and new City captain, Ste Hay. The pair of lads have be spotted having a boozy lunch together at The Cradle after it was announced Ste would be taking over - soon to be retired – Darren Osborne's role as Captain and it seems after their early altercation on the pitch they've found common ground. The star rivals have been spending time together working for the RAW Foundation charity and took a brief trip to Dubai to promote The Mirage Star hotel, where Ste was rumoured to also be taking a cheeky dirty weekend away with soap beauty Kimmie Britt. A source close to one of the stars said, "With Ste being a laddy player and Brendan ready to settle down I'm not sure where this bromance has come from. But they're both at the top of their game and dealing with histories of aggressive play, so maybe there's more in common there than we first thought." With City and United rumoured set to be going head to head at the end of the month, time will only tell whether the players' friendship can cross over the divide._

::: :::

_Tweets from stehay_

_Easy on the hate guys._

_Papers ave funny idea of friendship. REALBrendanBrady is top player and bloke but we've had 1 lunch + drinks. Rest is promo._

_Taking me girl KimmieB out for dinner 2nite. Gotta spoil her ;)_

_::: :::_

_Sent: fuck i'm so horny rite now. y has it bin 4 days since i seen u? _

_Received: Trainin. You got 3 more days to wait then I'll sort u out good…_

_Sent: like how?_

_Received: Like you'll be beggin me for mercy_

_Sent: i dont beg 4 ne1_

_Received: you will_

_Sent: god ur making this worse_

_Received: ;)_

_Received: Steven…_

_Received: Imagine how much I'm goin to need u in 3 days._

::: :::

It was Mark's idea in the end to embrace the friendship; it boded well that Ste could cross the team barriers to make allies, although Brendan expressed reservations – his agent didn't seem so keen. They were due to meet at a low key bar outside Manchester before heading their separate ways and regrouping again at an anonymous hotel Anne had arranged. She hadn't even put Brendan down as one of her "suspects" of who Ste was dating, thinking Brendan was already cheating on Eileen with another woman.

But Anne called on the way, telling Ste that there was a last minute club invite. He could feel the night with Brendan slipping away from him as the driver headed back into the heart of Manchester; they'd never get to the hotel in time.

"You need to start showing your fun side to the press," Anne said, clearly bored at having to work late. "We've heard the sob stories about you being the young dad and all the charity work blah blah, but the fun's missing right now. You're boring, Ste. If you want the fans behind any transfer we reckon you've gotta get out there and be one of the lads. There's a load of players heading to _Spiral_. You need to be one of them."

"Why does every invite sound like you're giving me a life sentence," Ste said, grumbling.

"I'm just relaying the message, sweetie," she said, an edge of cattiness to the saccharine.

Brendan was pissed at the change in plans, but Ste promised to make it up to him and that was enough to get them both through an evening for the cameras.

::: :::

Brendan made his feelings on the club scene abundantly clear. He spent much of the evening alone, slinging whiskey around in a glass and avoiding attention from girls and hating every second of the small talk with other players, by the look on his face.

Scouse and the lads hurled their youth around like a weapon, picking up girls with a hook of their arm and not caring about the state of the girls when they had tongues down their throat. The paparazzi were in the throng of it all and Ste spotted Dodger with a bevy of brunettes in one of the VIP corners so headed over to speak to him. If he played it right they'd be on the same team soon enough.

"How's it going Ste mate?" Dodger said, introducing him to the girl on the left and the right. He offered to get them drinks and headed to the bar.

Brendan was hunched over a drink and before he had a chance to speak they were snapped in a 'buddies' pose.

"Having fun over there?" he said, not looking up from the bottom of his glass.

"I'm making the most of it. You should try it," Ste said, leaning over the bar to place his order. Brendan scoffed as he winked at a barmaid. Ste shook his head, chin sharp. "Some of us have to keep up a rep, Brendan? Alright? We don't all have the luxury of a wife-to-be waiting at home."

His voice had grown dark and slurred. "Just how far up Dodger's arse were you planning on licking tonight?"

"Oh get over yourself!" Ste snapped, taking the drinks back to the table, leaving Brendan to drown his sorrows.

In the corner, Ste, Dodger and the girls did shots and Ste glanced over to Brendan, dragged into conversations with people he inwardly despised. One of the girls pulled him out of focus and looped an arm around his neck. She giggled as a photographer snapped away and landed a kiss on his neck.

"I've got a girlfriend you know," he said, easing away from her and pushing her in Dodger's direction.

He headed to the men's toilets and not long after washing his hands, Brendan appeared behind him and shoved him into one of the empty stalls. Luckily the sleek bathroom design meant almost black lighting and cubicle doors that allowed no spying. Brendan had him thrust against the wall.

"Fuck are you doing?!" Ste said, pushing him off, where he had his shirt gripped in his hands.

Brendan blinked, eyes all fogged with alcohol. He pawed the front of Ste's shirt, straightening the fabric out and murmuring apologies. He moved closer to kiss him, mouth parted and sweet perfumed alcohol on his breath.

"Not here," Ste said, lips catching a graze of his. "No."

Brendan shook his head and kissed Ste, a low groan trapped in his throat. Ste's hands slid around Brendan's neck and his desperation opened the kiss into breathy hedonistic lust. Brendan pulled them into closer contact, hips slamming together through the club's thrumming pulse of music.

And then a voice cut through it all – Scouse's – as he shouted: "Ste! Ste! Steveooo!" He began banging on all the cubicle doors.

Ste and Brendan sprung apart, clamping down their mouths and paralysed in silence.

"I'll be out in a bit, I'll meet you outside," Ste called knowing Finn wouldn't leave without a response.

"You alright?" he said, pressing an ear to the door.

Ste could feel Brendan haemorrhaging fear from the shake of his eyes.

"You got a bird in there with ya? You jammy bastard!" Finn laughed and agreed to meet him outside after he'd gone for a fag.

Ste sat on the closed lid of the toilet seat, head in his hands.

"I can't do this," he said. Quieter. "We're fucked."

"Don't say that. Don't say it."

"Well we are, aren't we?" Ste wiped his hand across his eyes.

Brendan rested against the wall and then looked down on him. "There's no one in tonight. She'll be gone until tomorrow night. Come to mine."

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

::: :::

His car arrived at Brendan's country house an hour after Brendan had got home. His driver knew him well enough never to ask questions and never to pass judgement. He'd dropped Ste off at various addresses over the years and was held in tight contract because of it.

When Brendan answered the door, his shirt was unbuttoned to the centre of his chest, hair spilled out. Eyes even more glassy with alcohol. He looked worn and that made him all the more appealing. Ste had barely kicked the door shut behind him as he threw arms and legs around Brendan, tackling him with a kiss.

He shed clothes in the hallway, not allowing himself to take in the sight of Brendan's family home; not looking at the photos; or Eileen's belongings and décor. Brendan had kissed his mouth raw with stubble and tongue as they stood in the living room. He turned up the volume of the stereo, the heavy beat of Faithless drumming through their skin.

Brendan's tongue latched onto the side of his neck and he unbuckled them both, heavy handed, as teeth and mouth worked over Ste's skin.

"I hate you being with other people," Brendan told him, tugging down his own trousers, leaving Ste to do the same.

Ste played his lips tender on Brendan's collar. "I know, I know."

Brendan took his face in his hands. "I just want you all to myself." His teeth closed around Ste's bottom lip until the blood trapped made it swell and he sucked on it, making little huffing moans of enjoyment before he charged their cocks together, leaking pre-cum over Ste's.

The carpet burned under his hands and knees as he waited for Brendan to hunt down the condom in his trouser pocket. But the relief came all too quickly when he felt Brendan hot behind him, giving his dick a few tugs. Ste's moans made Brendan curse; the way his body arched just for him.

"Come on," he said, urging. He panted, feeling the head of Brendan's cock linger at his entrance. "Fuck me."

Brendan played rough and fluid when he'd been drinking. He thrusted with primal urgency, noises matching the volume of music as they poured from the centre of his chest. Ste's brow furrowed deeper with every feral jut of Brendan's body and he caved forward, limp, onto his elbows, crowing for more, but not knowing if he could take it.

Brendan's hands gripped him and with each pound, Ste's wavering cries reached Brendan's ears with a drive that would only push Ste over the edge first.

Ste felt like he could burst, his head weighed heavy and cum shot over his stomach, but just as his orgasm reached full peak, Brendan had pulled out. If it wasn't for his clumsy thud onto the carpet, Ste would have thought this would all be part of his game of delayed gratification. He opened his eyes to complain, the next Faithless track beginning, and felt his body run cold.

Eileen, Brendan's future wife, stood in the hallway.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks for all the comments! I enjoyed the OMGs ;) I love reading all the speculation! There's lots of twists and turns to come. _

_::_

_Part Twelve – Brendan_

It felt like just half a second ago he had Steven at his fingertips, body rippling in pleasure. His body gave beautifully with the push-pull, tongue curled across his lip and fingers scraping the carpet. If there was ever an image tormenting him in the night, when the quiet corners of his mind would spark with arousal, it was that of Steven stretched and taut, groaning for pleasure. He revelled in being treated like a man, did Steven.

The sound of Steven coming bubbled in his throat and Brendan's grin loomed, taking greedy handfuls of his hips. He snarled, close himself – minutes away -, and then his eyes opened. Eileen watched their act and he had no time to register her expressions before he'd sprung away from Steven.

She didn't move. Eileen waited like a painted statue saying nothing, wordless as Brendan stuffed his legs into his jeans, shooting Ste a look as he scrambled, naked, for cover.

"What are you doing?" she said, mouth falling open. She knew - she'd have to be blind not to – but it was a sight she could never forecast seeing; one her brain couldn't process. Brendan watched her look from his face to Steven's, finally dawning who he was.

"Eileen, listen this –" Brendan began, grimacing as he folded the used condom inside his pocket, not unnoticed by her. He approached her but she backed off, gripping a table for support.

"Get away from me!" Her sobs broke through the shock, her whole body retching with them.

Steven had managed to dress, face as solemn as Brendan had ever seen. Something had died.

"You're disgusting," she said finally, mouth gnarled; face pale and nauseous. "Sick."

Brendan had to push him out of eye line, slumped in front of her. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

Eileen reeled around, going for Steven and slapping him across the face and jabbing her finger at him. "And you. What have you gotta say for yourself?" She wiped the streaming tears with her face that hit him and Brendan pulled her away.

"Don't touch me," she said, pushing him off. "How could you do this to me?"

Ste stepped in, speaking for the both of them. "It meant nothing," he said, not meeting Brendan's eyes. "We've been drinking. It was fooling around."

Her head snapped in his direction. "Fooling around? What kind of idiot do you take me for? Your clothes were in the hall. You were on the floor –" Her face twisted in the pain of reliving it. And then she looked at Brendan, eyes filling. "Fooling around is kissing your mate after one too many. You were _fucking_ someone else in our house. A man!"

Brendan caught Eileen's wrists before she landed an attack his way. Defeated she shrunk apart from the scene, crying. Steven had his phone out, finding a contact, and Brendan wanted to scream at him for his coldness. He'd already thought ahead: his career, the cover up. They hadn't even picked up the pieces.

"So this is the first time, is it? You and him?"

Steven became spokesperson, taking on his publicist's role all too easily. He had on the front; the eyes grey and fixed, the mouth moving without the hint of emotion. "He was horny and I was _drunk_, alright? That's the end of it."

She scoffed. "You're a liar." She spat. "You were loving it. You're dirty – you and him. Suddenly it all makes sense, you tarting it about in the all the papers with these girls. You're gay. And you're dragging my Brendan into your sordid little lifestyle, cos god forbid you're the only queer in football."

Steven put the correction of his life on hold, phone pushed back into his pocket. "You wanna know the truth, do ya?" He flared up in ways Brendan had only ever seen in the reports about his violence in the papers.

"Easy," Brendan said through gritted teeth trying to avoid her continued hurt.

Brendan saw a flicker of spite in his eyes, one seeped in power and jealousy. The words before, playing it down, was to save Brendan – Steven's team of lawyers and publicists would make him untouchable – but without Eileen, without Danny Houston, all Brendan would be was a disgraced footballer caught shagging a bloke. He'd be slaughtered by press and public. Football wouldn't go near him ever again. Brendan imagined Ste giving Eileen the uncensored truth in all its vivid detail: that _her_ Brendan pursued him; that Brendan fucked and rimmed and touched and sucked him; that _her _Brendan loved every second of it and that if they hadn't been caught they'd still be at it; everywhere doing everything.

Then something in Ste shifted, the charge died in him. "Yeah you're right. He didn't want to at first, but I kept on and on until yeah, I got him to fuck me."

"I want you outta my house," she said, lips tight and clamping together. "Now."

Ste didn't blink. He didn't sound like him at all; alien phrases repeated from a book. "I suggest you don't mention my name to anyone. My lawyers will be in touch."

Brendan looked to him, begging him to exchange a glance, to exude some warmth. But he left without another word. Brendan thought he saw him falter in the doorway, wipe his eyes and leave, but he put it down to wishful imagination.

He moved to redress, his shirt in the hall, and when he returned Eileen was on the floor, scrubbing at the carpet. Brendan tried dragging her away from it. "Leave it," he said.

But she whipped back at him. "You've got a bigger mess to sort out," she said. "Pack your bags and get out."

"Eileen we can sort this –"

"Sort what?" she said throwing the scouring pad in his direction. "You disgust me. I don't wanna be anywhere near you ever again!" A fresh waves of tears struck her and a life of lies played back to her. "Thank god we lost the baby." She stood quiet for a moment before throwing her engagement ring across the room.

"Don't say that."

"Why?" she said. "It's true. I don't know where you've been or what you might've given me."

She busied herself in the kitchen, washing dishes. It reminded him of all the small talk they'd usually make in times of domesticity. Times when he'd seen her in this much of a state, he'd have put his arms around her and promised her things would improve – but he was the source of all her misery. Her grief had sobered up his drinking, making his senses sharper. Thoughts inevitably fell about what action to take next – how they could recover. How he could recover.

Her voice brought him out of all his plans. "What did you do in Dubai?" she said, drying up her hands and turning around. She didn't have the tears in her eyes anymore; they'd dried and were narrowing in their gaze. She'd composed herself. "Let me change the question: were you already fucking him when you went to Dubai?" She didn't even wait for a response. "Yeah, you were." She nodded, tearing up at having been so oblivious.

She took out her phone and dialled him a cab and as the call ended, she one incoming: Steven's lawyers preventing her from disclosing his name or any identifying features to the press. Brendan's stomach clenched at the steely business manner of it and the way Eileen raged at him after left him tearful. But not because he was losing her or his life, but because he'd already lost Steven to his career.

::: :::

The next morning, he'd unplugged the hotel phone, let the messages on his mobile pile up and had already opened a bottle of single malt. When he felt brave enough to stick his head out of the parapet he saw the headlines first.

_MY PREMIERSHIP FIANCE: THE CHEAT_

_BRENDAN BRADY OUTED_

_UNITED STAR BRADY CAUGHT IN GAY AFFAIR_

_FOOTBALL HERO IS GAY_

_FIRST GAY FOOTBALLER OUTED BY FUTURE WIFE_

His photo covered hundreds of pages online. He was national interest now and not just a sports' star. They referred to his behaviour as alienating for fans, deviating from laddish pub culture. They had quotes from appalled and horrified fans: it was only eight in the morning and fans had taken to Twitter to burn their Brady shirts. It showed a bad example to young fans; it was a disgrace to children. These were things said under a thick wad of so-called journalism. Even the minimal defense written, churned his stomach. To some this was a necessary progression and bold new territory for football and sport. Brady could be a new role model for young guys afraid of the consequences of coming out in sport. He baulked at their left wing suggestions that this was the future of society and equality. If anything, the closet appealed more than ever.

Lawsuit in place, Steven was absent from every account and speculation heightened over Brendan's secret lover. Details of the night were embellished in tabloid detail, giving Eileen's account a seedy twist by suggesting the "sex act" she witnessed was too graphic for print. They'd found some other bloke he'd picked up for the night years back in Ireland and had a mostly fictional account of his lifetime of closeted gay encounters.

He deleted his Twitter account; the trending topics making him queasy. In the end he rushed to the bathroom, bile hitting the back of his throat as he clung to the porcelain and slumped against the bath, helpless.

It wasn't long before he was smashing the bathroom to bits, cracking the mirror and leaving a bloody scratch on his hand. Nothing stood in his path. He had fistfuls of blood by the time he sat in the wreckage. It barely scraped the emptiness inside.

Danny Houston's voicemail was short and to the point. If his secretary hadn't been off sick, she would have called.

"_Brendan, it's Danny Houston. This is just a courtesy call to confirm the termination of your contract due to the terms being broken. We cannot offer you representation in any form. No lawyers, no press. Nothing. Your mess, your problem."_

The isolation engulfed him. He sat trapped in the hotel room, without even the TV as a comfort. His tale had spread to the news, minus the details of the affair.

And still nothing more from Steven.

When he'd arrived at the hotel, in the early hours straight after the taxi ride, he'd immediately text Steven, trembling over the keys. Telling him via text was cowardly, seemed insincere, but there seemed to be no option left – the act of a desperate man.

_Sent: I'm in love with you, Steven. Don't cut me out. Please._

_Sent: Please._

_Sent: I love you._

And then an hour later, it woke him. It cut through his restless sleep like a new edge to a nightmare.

_Received: I can't see you. I can't. _

_Received: I'm sorry._

And when Brendan tried calling him in the morning, a robotic voice told him: _The number you've dialled is no longer in use. Please hang up and try again._

So he tried again.

And again.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Woah I was not expecting such a reaction from the last chapter but I'm completely thrilled! Thanks so much. Now for Ste's part…_

_::_

_:_

_Part Thirteen – Steven_

Mark's voice sounded foggy from being woken in the early hours, but within moments Anne was on the phone, even more ratty than usual and. When she realised the scandal potential she perked up and drove to Ste's without so much of a lick of foundation on.

He'd made her a cup of tea and stayed thankful that the steam from the kettle made his eyes look less puffy. He didn't want her to know he'd been crying. He knew now wasn't the time for self-pity – image was everything, darling.

"Ohmygod," she said in one breath, the tea circling under it. "This is so messy." And then she faltered, catching up with Ste's reaction. "Sorry."

"That's your job, innit? Clean up the mess," Ste said, hunched away from her. She looked just as pretty without the layers of make-up, but less threatening: younger. He wondered how someone of her age could be in such a position of power; that she had the ability to rescue or ruin with one carefully calculated move.

"Lawyers done their bit?" she confirmed, tapping things into her laptop. She shook her head now and again; she couldn't get her head around the hook up. "Was he good in bed?" she asked, her expression slightly pinched as she tested the boundaries of the question.

"You're asking me that now?!"

She shrugged at his scoff, going back to her typing. She pulled in her bottom lip with her teeth, thinking. "Right. Let me break it down for you."

Ste knew, before she even opened her mouth that he wouldn't want to hear it, but he'd be kidding himself if there was a solution which didn't involve sacrificing something. His head rested on his knee like the position of a child, slack in the energy he had no will to muster.

"First off, kinda obvious one, but you can't see him again," Anne said it quickly as though it was like ripping off a plaster and she gave Ste the privacy of not looking at him in that moment. His throat burned and he nodded. He'd never felt more alone. Once, he'd naively thought people like Anne could give him whatever he wanted for a fee, but it didn't occur to him that his private life wasn't his to own any longer. Ste Hay was a brand, not person with needs and desires and love.

"Yeah, fine," he said with hard teeth and tears threatening. Out of the window he could see late revellers returning home from a night out. How he longed to be among them.

"So, phone number change - I'll get you a new SIM in the morning – although if he's sensible he'll be keeping his distance," Anne said, adding a memo to her phone to pick up a SIM card. "We're going to need a reason for your sudden disappearance from his life, as his friend, without you looking like you're…against the gays." She raised her eyebrows and Ste felt like laughing if it wasn't all so tragic. "So you'll tweet your support first thing, give a statement to the press.."

"And say what?!" Ste said, bolting upright. "No. So I can't talk to him but I've gotta say to the press that it's all alright that he's gay and I'm totally fine with it?"

Anne pulled a face and then bordered on sympathy. "Sweetheart that's all part of the job. Out there you _have_ to be what you're expected to be."

"It's bullshit," Ste said, hurling a glass to the wall and watching Anne shrink back in fear. Immediately he apologised, heading for a dustpan and wiping his give-away tears.

She carried on, calming her voice and pausing to choose her words carefully. She had worse clients than Ste, addicts of all sorts tearing rooms apart when they were given news that they didn't want. "We'll get him to pull out of the RAW Foundation so you won't have that hanging over you –" Ste blinked away his tears. Everything came tied with a memory, a history. The charity work even came with a future: the expectations of their London plans.

"- and I think our best option is a – er – sex addict story. We'll get some stories 'leaked' and we'll get you into a rehab clinic. That'll give you some time out and your reputation will be sorted. You won't be a suspect then."

He'd become the epitome of a wretched football stereotype. A girl in every city – sometimes two – a heartbreaker. He'd have to admit to cheating on Kimmie and an unquenchable lifestyle. He'd become a sleaze to all women and a source of new chants on the pitch. His press team had twigged, before he had, that the Park transfer might fall through with such bad press. But he knew Anne's team would be making it known the efforts he was going to in order to beat the addiction. And of course rolling out his doting dad image would help. Ste Hay the City captain with the deplorable sex addict.

But at least he wasn't gay.

"You're making it sound like the worst crime. We've done nothing wrong!" Glass clattered when he swept it into the pan. He dropped it to the floor and wrung out his hands, bending them across his neck. His mind jumped, scrabbling through impossible ideas and suggestions and he hovered by Anne's knees. "Tell me there's another way. Something else."

He saw for the first time in her: pity. But her eyes shone down on him in warmth, reaching out with her hand. "He's famous and his fiancée caught you. She will be in _every_ paper in the morning. I can't do any more than I'm doing Ste."

His head fell, and with it, tears came. He saw her reach into her bag and hand him a packet of tissues, stroking his hand in the process.

"The sex addict angle isn't so bad," she said. "We won't go overboard. And it probably won't even get noticed if everyone's talking about –"

Ste shook his head. Even she didn't understand – why would she? Her currency was reputation and fabrication. He resented her for not seeing the heart. Anne had no idea of the company and affection that would be missed; the sound of his warm, nuzzling voice; knowing Brendan didn't just empathise – he lived it; the wanting - not of teenager idolisation or property – but of a shared life, one that, however impossible, felt worth whatever agony befell for just a few minutes together. And even now, he'd never regret a moment with Brendan.

"I'm not on about that, alright?" he said.

"Is it about the impact it'll have on the transfer? Because I really don't think that –"

"Just shut up!" Ste said, words shaking and clogged by acting on his feelings. "I love him."

Anne, folded her hands in her lap with a simple: "Oh." She fidgeted with a fold of her skirt, eyes flitting uncomfortably from his blotchy face and down again. He knew in her handbook love never really meant love. Love meant cheating on your wife or fear of losing a lifestyle. Love was the cowardly act of a man disgraced. Love was the easiest four letter lie.

She closed her eyes for a moment. "If you're planning on coming out then I need to call Mark…"

Ste threw himself on his feet; his anger propelled him around the room. "Don't sit there and act like it's even an option. You know, _I know,_ that blokes like me don't come out."

"I'm not saying it's what I'd suggest but-"

"Do you have any idea what he's going through right now?"

"Who?"

His eyes flashed. "Brendan." Ste paced the room, not looking at her as he vented. "He's gonna wake up tomorrow with no agent, no PR, no one. He won't be able to stay at United, you know he won't. His life is over. Yeah, and maybe we was always gonna get caught but he don't deserve any of the shit he's gonna get not from anyone."

As if by fate, his phone alerted with a text. It buzzed on the table in front of Anne and he sidestepped her quickly to avoid her prying.

"Is it from him?" she asked. Her eyes drifted to his, imploring, but he wasn't giving anything away in his expression.

_Received: I'm in love with you, Steven. Don't cut me out. Please._

And two others in succession:

_Received: Please._

_Received: I love you._

Ste staggered to the window, breath stuck in his chest. The words wiped blurry across the screen when he attempted to reread and he pressed his palm against his eyes' wetness to clear his vision. His fingers moved immediately to respond, he knew the reply exactly.

Anne's voice stopped him, slicing through the silence. "Ste," she said, darting over and placing a delicate hand on his forearm. "Think about this."

He wiped his hand across his face, reluctantly letting her see the mess he was in. "He loves me," he said, voice cracking like an opening ridge, pouring out his weakness.

Anne's brave smile - no gloss, no colour – wore thin. It resembled the kind of smile a doctor might plaster on before the inevitable bad news. She shook her head. "If you don't break off now, you're only going to make it harder on yourself, Ste."

He snapped at her with fierce eyes, a cement venom in his jaw. "What would you know?"

She eased the phone out of his hand. "I know that you're either going to have to break it off, or..."

"Or?"

"Or you're going to lose everything."

::: :::

Before Anne left, she seemed more human. She joked about the state of the apartment and washed his dishes, even though he had a cleaner and a working dishwasher. He knew her real motive: her presence preventing him from texting back.

He had curled up against the window ledge, watching the world pass in night time stutters of traffic, like nothing had changed. Somewhere out there Brendan sat alone and media outlets typed, grubby fingers sparking with joy, as their words collated to put a knife in someone else's world. And the old says – tomorrow's chip paper – didn't stick in a world of Twitter and YouTube where they could spin off a hundred and forty characters of abuse and call him every name that had been haunting him from day one. Right in that moment, the sky an inky blue, limbo held on like a tight fist.

Anne collected her things together and with bag looped over her arm she toyed in thought and when her words came they were perfectly chosen lines.

"Ste, before I go, I just need one more thing from you."

He looked up, an expression of wounded exhaustion, veins bleeding into the whites of his eyes.

"I need you to text him, tell him it's over. And then I need your SIM card." Her voice, her posture said everything her words didn't. They were the kindness to her cruelty.

His bottom lip fattened and he took his phone to his chest like a teddy-bear. "No."

"I'm sorry," she said, holding out her hand like a ticking countdown. "I can't force you to do anything, but _this_ is what you pay me for. If you don't' and someone finds out then –" she shook her head, "-that's your life gone. And it's not just you, it's your kids too. You will _never_ get over being publically disgraced and how the hell do you think they will?"

Ste could feel his throat lurch, his stomach rolling with nausea. He pressed his fingertips to his lips and regained focus. As if to torture him, a newly framed photo of Leah and Lucas sat on the wall behind Anne and when she saw the direction of his gaze, she looked at their smiling faces.

The rims of his eyes tingled raw. His fingers found the keys.

_I can't see you. I can't. _

_I'm sorry._

When he handed the SIM card over, fingers clumsy, he told Anne to let herself out. He slunk to the bedroom, burying himself under the covers with his fist gnawed in his mouth to stop his pain being so vocal.


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: Loving all the reactions! Even if you might want to kill me – haha! Thank you so much. Enjoy (I think) the next chapter.**_

_**.**_

* * *

_Part Fourteen – Brendan_

* * *

_UNITED PLAYER DEACTIVATES TWITTER IN WAKE OF SCANDAL_

_FOOTBALL ASSOCIATION DELIVERS HARSH WORDS TO HOMOPHOBIC FANS_

_BRADY RECEIVES THOUSANDS OF MESSES OF SUPPORT AFTER BEING OUTED_

::: :::

Sadness oppressed him like a heat wave. There was no moment in which he wanted to be awake and when he was, he drank. When the chambermaid came daily, it should have been his excuse to slip unnoticed into the outside world, but he was pretty sure that freedom was likely to never happen again. Photographers and reporters camped outside ready to flood the media with images of his drink-battered, despair ridden face. He'd heard only of his demise and the speculation of the outside world from the swivelling, box TV in the room and the unhelpful visits from a new agent.

United's club manager, Hutchinson, was renowned for his no-nonsense approach but he had a softness in his experience, which meant he was quick to arrange Brendan an agent in the wake of Danny dropping him. He'd given him a fortnight off too, which had its benefits but trapped him in the walls of the hotel and his own thought.

He'd made a vague effort to tidy up the room before the new agent arrived. He shaved, put on a fresh shirt and swilled tar black coffee around his mouth. She seemed to understand the sensitivity of the situation and willingly travelled to the hotel, edging through the wall of press to attend his room.

Brendan looked on her suspiciously when she arrived looking fresh out of school, wisps of youth in multi-coloured strands of hair. He took Ashleigh's hand with a reluctant shake and offered her a seat at one end of the suite. He'd been shifted around the hotel in order to keep his location away from the front, after one night sticking his head out the window and telling the paparazzi to fuck off.

She had to be a junior, he decided. Beggars can't be choosers – the phrase he expected Hutchinson to say if he queried her. She wanted to know his expectations of her and she outlined what she would do for him.

"So what's the plan between now and when you're back on the team?" Ashleigh asked, looking down at her notes. Her clothes gave the impression of a relaxed goth, but she sat with a poise and authority which made him on edge.

"Plan?"

"Have you thought about some counselling? Sometimes it really helps to-"

"No."

She pressed her lips together, heavily made-up eyes drifting back down. "Alright then. We need to start rebuilding your profile."

Brendan had his back to her, pouring a drink and half-heartedly offering her one.

"I'll have a beer if you've got one," she said. That changed things. She put her notes down, crossed her legs on the seat. "Your hot property," she said once he'd relaxed a little.

"Apparently so," Brendan said, putting his feet up on the desk next to her.

She took a large gulp of beer, wiped it on the back of her hand and then wriggled, animating with an action plan. "Here's my thinking. You've got two weeks to clean up your image so you're back ready to kick some ass out there on the pitch and in that time you've got to go from disgraced explosion from the closet to the gay hero of football."

Brendan downed his drink, slinging it to one side. "Not what I had in mind. I just want to get out there, play football and keep my head down."

"It's such a great opportunity!" Ash said, embodying the physical squeal of enthusiasm. "I've only had you on my books for two days and already I've had Stonewall and GLAAD and the magazines –"

Brendan brushed her off with a wave of his hand. "Not interested."

Ash's face dropped, confusion squinting her eyes together.

"I don't wanna be a spokesperson or some queer role model." He paused, becoming exasperated. "Jesus Christ I don't even wanna be queer!"

His engagement band is sat on the side by an empty whiskey bottle. It has retained its shine like it was never worn. Ash looked at quickly and then glances at Brendan. She held the beer bottle with hugging hands and stayed quiet, letting his mood calm.

"What about your partner?"

He covered his face with his hands, skin dragging down like insipid rubber. "She won't speak to me."

Ash faltered, combing back her straggled hair. "No, I meant…the man you were seeing."

Shaking his head, Brendan slumped over to the window. The automatic reflex almost bolted out of him: deny deny deny. But the world knew. Even if they had no idea who.

Brendan couldn't block out the sudden memory that plagued him at every opportunity. Just one night after being caught with Steven, he sat alone in the hotel room obsessively checking his tweets. Brendan couldn't get hold of him and as he held onto the pang of desperation he interpreted in those sparse texts, it wasn't enough. He'd never told a man he loved them before and now he had the anguish over the responding silence.

_::_

_** SteHay**_

_Whoever he is in private, Brendan Brady is a top player. #ItGetsBetter #Equality #LoveIsLove_

_ MISSFANTASTIC no of course I feel bad 4 his gf. Was a shock 4 every1 but we shud respect ppl whatever their sexuality_

_ CityBoi4EVA LOL no he neva tried it on._

::

The words, in their manufactured maturity and affection, stung. They weren't Steven. They might as well have been tweeted by a man in the street. Steven believed "It Gets Better" as little as he did. Lies get worse, tensions get unbearable.

Of course, after this, the PR machine rumbled on and he went from sympathetic sensitive lad one night – a danger to his credibility to be seen supporting the _bender_ from United – to a sex addict the morning after. It spread all over the radio and the internet. Kiss and tell stories, photos of him with hands on girls' thighs, a "leaked" sighting of him at a rehab clinic. Steven Hay became the grubby pervert with harems of women and Page 3 girl threesomes.

"I've not seen him," Brendan said to Ash, sighing.

"Oh," she said, uncomfortable that the room had shifted and he had sunk into quietness. "Are you planning on-"

He snapped. "Bastard won't speak to me, he's changed his number. So what do you think?!"

Ash sat back in the seat like a DIY psychologist. "Do you think it would help to see him?"

Brendan scoffed at her, pulling back the blinds at the window. The suite faced the car park, away from the press and the sight of any one at all. It had become his prison. He swallowed, pushing out Ash's question.

"I thought you came here for a statement from me?"

Hutchinson had been kind enough to speak on his behalf the day after Eileen had gone to press, drawing the focus away from the scandal and back to football the way Brendan would want it.

"Then shoot," she said.

::: :::

_BRENDAN BRADY DEEPLY APOLOGETIC IN NEW STATEMENT_

_Recently outed football star Brendan Brady, expressed heartfelt apologies today through his agent. Mr Brady was caught cheating mere days ago by his fiancée and has since been exposed as having a long history of gay affairs. Although the United player failed to divulge the full nature of his sexuality, it is assumed that Brendan Brady has been hiding his homosexuality since his teenage years. Gay rights groups have been eager to see Brady's coming out as a victory for sport, however it's unclear how successful this move will be with such hostility from fans in the football world. Police in the Manchester area have made two arrests related to homophobic abuse on Twitter aimed at Mr Brady but it is not known if he has been involved in the charges since deleting his account. United manager Tony Hutchinson seemed to draw a line under the scandal, emphasising Brady's impressive track record on the team. It remains to be seen how well United players and fans will take to having a gay man on the team._

::

_** BLIND ITEMS**_

_**HE SCORES**_

_It's what everyone wants to know: just who was it? Sources say the steamy hook up would rock the football world forever. Locker room lust drove them crazy. Yes THEM. It's not just one closet that was ripped apart this month, but only one has a bullet proof PR team behind them…_

_::_

::: :::

A call from Ashleigh woke him nearing eleven pm in the days that followed. They'd all blurred into one. He didn't scramble to the phone quick enough, his focus hazy from vodka miniatures so he pressed play on her message, throwing himself down on the bed.

He'd only just began to take in her message and make sense of it when there was a knock at the door.

He smelt her before he saw her: floral and heady. She was the very definition of stunning.

"Anne Minniver," she said, voice pitchy. She nosed into the room. "Can I come through?"

She tottered past in skyscraper heels, screwing her nose up at the state of the room. It all started to dawn on him; who she was. The hope in contacting Steven, which had been shrinking by the day, had started to build itself up again without his control.

Before she had a chance to sit, he'd stalked over, towering over her petite frame.

"I wanna see him."

Her lipstick matched her dress. She smiled. "Who?"

"Charlie Chaplin – who do you think? Steven. I want to see him."

Her breasts shook as she huffed out a breath. She pointed at him. "Does this work with the boys does it? The growling and the nasty eyes?" She placed that hand on her hip, sending a text with the other hand. "This is not going to help things, you know that?"

The knock at the door made her raise her eyebrows and she jerked her head in that direction. "Well go on then," she said.

Brendan could barely breathe when he reached it. The world seemed to fold in on him. His heart pulsed too loud, his skin too hot. How long had Steven been in the building? Brendan couldn't spend a moment longer fearing that he'd been seen; Anne could cover up anything, he said it himself.

He didn't feel the rush of air as the door broke the seal; Steven launched onto him, giving Brendan just seconds to see his drawn face and watery eyes. Their mouths collided, backs hitting the wall with enough force to knock them apart and sink back together again. There was a beauty in the softness of Steven's mouth that he hadn't even realised he'd missed. He was real. The moment simmered with such intensity that Brendan couldn't keep his hands from groping every inch of him. Both his palms sought the grip of his face and when they panted apart, they pressed forehead to forehead with Brendan just reaching to cherish Steven's top lip between his.

Anne cleared her throat, striding over, shutting the door behind them and rolling her eyes at their carelessness.

"Ste," she said, a forced coldness in her tone. She motioned him over with her head and they stood like a two-person army against him. Brendan saw now, by the state of his face, that he was raw from crying. He didn't look up.

"We need you to sign this to pull out of the RAW foundation," she said holding up a contract. She squeezed Steven's hand and a sick dread filled Brendan from the chest down. She looked at Ste and give him the smallest of nods. "And then you need to say goodbye."


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely comments as usual. I hope you enjoy this one explaining where Ste's head is at. **_

* * *

_Part Fifteen – Ste_

In the days before the orchestrated goodbye, Ste's mind was pulled apart at every opportunity.

Just four days ago he'd sat opposite Patrick Blake in his awe inspiring offices at Park, his desk opposite a wall of glass with views of the Thames. His eyes flickered around Ste's face with a pale coldness that shook Ste's confidence more than he expected. He took a seat when Patrick requested and straightened up his tie. Patrick didn't sit; Ste suspected it was a move of authority. He wandered along the window'd wall, glancing across the London landscape. Ste fidgeted, just as he had when he'd sat in front of Warren for the first time. Back then he was young and naïve to the joys and perils of the world. He'd grown up seeing Warren on the TV and thought of him as an idol, but Patrick Blake was a different sort of man: chilly and business minded.

"What's happened Ste?" he asked. His voice had that of a steely headmaster and Ste could feel himself sitting up tighter, as if he was being spiked from the bottom of his seat. "I make a great case for you with the team, with the sponsors, with the club and then I open paper after paper and there's this constant stream of press about your private life."

Ste hung his head. "I'm really sorry."

"So I keep reading," Patrick said, a frown emerged under his brows. "An apology in the papers is one thing, I need to know you mean it before I make any real commitment to this transfer."

Ste had the look on his face of a scolded child, his hands folded in his lap. "I swear Mr Blake. It's not who I am, I promise you. Football is everything to me and I'd never throw that away, especially not with this opportunity. Park's been my dream forever."

He'd been promised that the kiss and tell stories would only superficially tarnish his reputation, they weren't a real threat to his position in the sporting world. The public's view on him had slipped into negativity, but with gossip blind items floating around hinting at another closeted player being the one to be sleeping with Brendan, it was preventing him from being a suspect. He hated being thought of as a womanizer, particularly as when Leah and Lucas grew up they'd be presented with these historical bulletins about his private life, which weren't even true. He clung to that thought as he pleaded into Patrick's eyes.

"Let me be honest with you Steven," Patrick said, oblivious to the way Ste faltered when his full name was used. "We want you to join us at Park. We've been clear about that for a long time." Patrick rested on the edge of the desk, placing his hands together, fingertips touching. "But we've got our reputation to think about too. We want to push ahead, get the transfer through before the deadline, but only – _only _ – if you can sort out whatever mess is going on in your head."

Ste nodded, hands clammy against the arms of the seat. "I swear."

The air doesn't grow any warmer and Patrick moves away again, leaning up against the window. "You need to clean up your act. See your kids. Think about what's important to you. This is a once in a lifetime offer; you transfer in the next fortnight or never. Never."

His words didn't come as a shock. Patrick Blake's reputation was notoriously harsh. His history of making and breaking players was widely known. If Patrick dropped a transfer than that player's career was ruined in the process. And Ste had given up too much already to let this slip through his fingers. It had to be worth it, he had to go ahead with the transfer or that was the end of his dreams and no club would be willing to keep him on. Warren Fox wouldn't want a Park reject either. If he didn't have Park and he didn't have Brendan then everything would go to waste.

When he met Warren the day after, he confirmed as much. Warren had his own private pub in Manchester and he opened it for the pair of them, for an informal chat - he said. Ste knew the setting was to put him at ease when his words wouldn't. He poured them a beer and winked at Ste not to tell – both of them were supposed to hold back on the drinking during the season.

"How did the meeting with Patrick go?" Warren said with a chummy interest.

"Good," Ste said, fiddling with a placement in front of him in City's colours.

"Did he mention any figures to you?"

Ste shook his head. He had little to do with his salary and outgoings – as disconnected from reality as it made him feel – Mark hired an account for him and he didn't have to worry about that sort of thing. He was never any good with numbers at school. Of course, he knew a hefty sum of his pay packet went to Mark and a substantial amount to Anne and the company too. But without them, he'd be…- well he knew where he'd be, like Brendan. Adrift and alone.

"Your agent is bound to be in touch with all the nitty gritty, although I suspect he's rubbing his hands together," Warren says, grinning. His face looked round and shapeless when he smiled and for some that was a comfort, but for Ste he found the macho repartee difficult to keep up with, even after all this time. Even at school he'd been the odd one out, hence why he'd turned to petty crime and getting Amy Barnes pregnant. "By my reckoning you're probably looking at four or five mil."

Sums like that just didn't sound real to Ste and he raised his drink and his smile in some sort of celebration all the while wads of notes filled his mind, money he didn't know what to do with. The kids always came first in terms of spending; their trust funds would set them up for life if he kept his head into the game.

"Ste," Warren said and his jaw had fixed tight, a dark solemnness to his eyes. "We need to talk man to man here." Warren rapped his knuckles on the table, almost as if to get Ste's attention. "I know you've got some shit going down in your personal life but you can-_not_ mess this transfer up, you got me? Blake's offering me – the club - a massive transfer fee." He laughed suddenly, bellowing. "Crazy, actually."

Warren's eyes shrunk into beady dots.

"If you break the deal Ste then I'm not sure I'm gonna put my time and money into a little scrote like yourself who can't keep his pants on," Warren said, raising his hands. His laugh rang empty of humour. "Just being honest with you."

Ste knew he was meant to swallow Warren's harsh words and become a nodding dog but he sat dumbfounded at the table, staring up at the City memorabilia on the walls. All this, his whole life, could end in an instant. It would be like someone smashing a fish bowl on a concrete step. He wouldn't even know life without football – what would become of him? Of his family? Would he still be hounded by the press – of course, of course – they'd dine off his failure for years. He'd be a laughing stock in the business, to go from Sports Personality, a captaincy to a public fall from grace.

So after the drink, it was decided. He packed himself off to the gym and poured every ounce of himself into training and getting back into the game, ready for the transfer. He couldn't lose the one thing he had left.

Mark, hot on the heels of hearing about his new earnings, was even keener to be involved in his rehabilitation. Ste started to see pound signs under eyelids – Warren, Mark, Patrick - and blocked them out. To them he was a product, not a person, not even a player. He was an investment now, a staggering one at that.

The doubts that crept in and made him an insomniac in the darkest hours of the night, were swept up and away by the streams of events and press he was dragged into, particularly when it was stories attempting to repair the damage to his name and the club. But his drinking and his tempers hadn't gone unnoticed by Mark and he sent Anne round to his apartment. He thought she stood on his doorstep for a pep-talk and a slice of kindness. Ever since that fateful night where she sat with him and tried to help him make sense of what would have to have happen in regards to Brendan, he looked on her as more of a friend. But her outfit; her demeanour and plastic smile had said it all: she came with bad news.

Closure, she said. Severance, he thought. There was no escaping the pressure of thoughts that were holding him back from his training bests – all he could think about was Brendan. And with rumours fluttering around the club of a friendly derby game, with City and United against each other again, it was a constant hell. He'd tried so hard to keep his misery out; he'd been wrong in thinking Mark was fooled.

"Serious talk time," Anne said, pressing together her lips and letting the gloss smudge. She watched him slump down on the sofa in front of her. "You're never going to be over this thing if we don't go and break it off properly. Unresolved means messy and complicated and that is the last thing you need right now."

"I know," he said, mouth sulky. "Don't you think I know?" He jangled an empty can in his hand and wandered over to the fridge for another. If she was going to tell him something he want to hear then he needed to be drunk for it. He wondered what pay rise Anne was expecting after the transfer, how much was he worth to her now? More than he was worth a few weeks ago.

"Sweetheart," she said a moment of genuine affection in her voice. "If you come out, that's it. All this, all you've worked for, it's over. And Brendan, he doesn't seem the Pride sort. He won't get involved with the gay community by all accounts, and rumour has it he's putting what you had down as a bit of 'boys' fun'." She made air quotes with her fingers and Ste scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "

"He wouldn't." Ste had Brendan's texts burned into his mind.

She touched his hand, disbelievingly patronising. The messages exchanged weren't just the final words of desperation, or a man hurt and lost and lonely. The feelings were real. As intense and fast and gripping as they were, they were the most grounded _real_ moment of life that they'd both experienced, surrounded by people with false images and beliefs of them. They shared an understanding of a world where no one knows the real man, the one shut away on his own.

But maybe Anne had a point – was it heightened and pressurised for being forbidden and secret? Both of them had rebuffed the idea of a genuine relationship – in their positions it was futile to even consider – but what had changed? Brendan seemed dead against the _idea_ of being gay, let alone living it. He could never be 'out and proud', especially not so publically. Could he?

Anne was dragging him into a cab before he had a chance to speak. He felt sick as they got closer to the hotel. On the way she handed him her iPad. She had endless webpages saved with a new growth of gay rumours about Ste published, linking him to Brendan, speculation that the RAW foundation was all part of the cover up. Of course the national press could print nothing about his private life without a huge legal fee, but social media was a playground that couldn't be tamed.

Anne watched the colour drain from his face, but to drag him back on message even further, she showed him the supposed quotes from Brendan where he described 'confusion' and meaningless sex, the word bi-curious bandied about by journalists like a new buzzword. He didn't say a further word in the car to the hotel, let her control, his lifeless spirit dragged along.

She made him wait for a text by the hotel's fire escape after they successfully avoided the press. And when it came he couldn't think for the sound of blood pounding in his head.

He stood at the door, heart making his chest hurt. Anne had run through it in the car: what he should say, how he should say it, what he should do. She hadn't told him what _not_ to do and that almost made it worse, because he could kid himself. When the door opened, his brain escaped and he threw himself into Brendan's arms. Kissing him seemed like the easiest decision he'd made all week.

"Goodbye?" Brendan snapped. "What do you mean 'goodbye'?"

Anne stepped in front of Ste, placing a tentative arm on his shoulder. "I know it's hard for the both of you, but it's better we tie things up instead of leaving things unresolved."

Brendan shook his head. "No no no. This isn't some business contract you're terminating."

"Mr Brady, I'm sorry. I don't mean it to be so cold sounding, but it's for the best." Anne laid out the RAW papers for him to sign but they felt meaningless.

"Steven, you lost your voice or summit?" Brendan prowled up to him, a resentment in his watery eyes. Ste knew from Brendan's perspective he looked heartless and distant – he didn't know the turmoil he was dragged along in, the drink, the anger, the sleepless nights.

He swallowed, looking to his hands and away from Brendan. "We can't see each other. You know that."

Brendan scoffed. "Why? Cos of her? Cos of them?" His arms spread to mimic the paparazzi circling outside the building. "Cos of football, is that it? You're choosing football over me?"

Ste felt a sob rumbling through his throat but he pinned it down and pushed it away. "I didn't want to choose. I'm not choosing, I-"

Brendan shrugged and moved away from him like he'd been burned. His face had twisted in anger like the root of a tree. "Good," he said, real venom in his tone, nodding. "We're done then. You can – you can just let yourself out." He picked up a hotel pen and signed the release contract in front of Anne and handed it to her. Brendan's eyes betrayed him; Ste saw the pain and anguish trapped in there, under the anger. They shared a final look before Ste left. He and Anne took separate cabs and he cried all the way home.

::: :::

No one had seen or heard from him in days. The stale clung stale to him with the booze and the tearful anger. He'd smashed things, he'd thrown trophies out of the window. He thought the press might get wind of it so he locked himself away for another day. It was Amy's birthday, the first day he managed to drag himself out of bed and travel to see her and the kids. Lee was out so she made them both tea and they sat in the kitchen with the kids upstairs playing.

"You look awful," she said, unwrapping the gifts he'd bought her months back.

Ste shrugged into his caffeine. "I'm on a break from playing, you know how it is."

She smiled fondly at the gifts and thanked him. "Once the cover up blows over, it'll all be fine."

If only Amy knew the half of it. She had no idea Ste was the secret half of the story she'd seen spread over the gossip and sports pages for months.

She grimaced for a moment. "When you see what's happened with the Brendan guy, thank god your team know what they're doing."

Ste didn't look up, chin rested on his hand.

"I mean yesterday was just horrible," she said, absentmindedly folding the clothes he'd bought her.

"Yesterday?"

Amy frowned. "Didn't you see it?" He'd been vodka-unconscious most of yesterday; he shook his head. "He got taken off before half time. So much abuse, the chanting, jeers from other players. He looked like he was going to kill someone."

Ste clutched his stomach, sickness rising to his throat. He wanted to tell Amy, pour everything out, call Brendan, put an end to this whole fucking charade.

"It just made me realise," - Amy continued – "that you're doing the right thing about not coming out. Look what it's done to him. And he's lucky in a way: he's nearly at the end of his career, he's got no kids. The thought of you going through all that. The thought of our family going through it. _God_. It doesn't bear thinking about, does it?" She paused, touching his hand an oblivious to the nausea rushing through him. "Just think how much you've got ahead, it's amazing. So tell me more about the Park transfer!"

Then on the kitchen counter he saw it, hadn't noticed it at first. It had seemed so insignificant, so background. A newspaper.

_UNITED AND HOMEWARD BOUND BRADY REACH MUTUAL DECISION TO END CONTRACT_

Brendan had stopped playing for United; he was going home to Ireland.


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N: This is the penultimate chapter of United so hold onto your hats. It's been a real pleasure reading all your comments and reviews. I hope this lives up to a worthy second-to-last part! Enjoy and let me know what you think. **_

_**:::**_

_**::**_

* * *

_Sixteen – Brendan_

He had wanted to do it properly, not over the phone or with agents present. He'd squared it with Ashleigh and she'd rambled on with something wishy-washy and intellectual she'd read in a book. There weren't chapters on disgraced footballers caught by their wife, penetrating a man on the living room floor. Calls weren't going through and there was no reasoning with agents, so at a loss – well, he had no job any more – he drove there, waited outside to check the place wasn't empty and knocked on the door.

Since his being dropped from United – the papers called it 'mutual' in sneering, bitten-back homophobia tinted print – the press had been a little less interested. Of course, he was a scandalous celebrity still and there was fifteen years' worth of shags they could dig up, but footballers lost their shine once they'd been unceremoniously dumped.

It wasn't in Tony Hutchinson's nature to be especially harsh or personal, but when Brendan had been dragged off the pitch before half time, serious talks were hand.

"We can sit here and be as PC as we like Brendan but the heart of the matter is, you are what you are and it doesn't mix with football. It never has. You and I both know that, am I right?" Tony did a lot of sighing as he fumbled around for the right words.

He knew with absolute certainty that Brendan would never pursue anything legal with the FA – discrimination etc – because dragging his case through a court wasn't the quiet route he hoped for. Even if he won, the atmosphere in the pitch, the changing rooms and the stalls wouldn't change. You could take smack on the weekends, get done for GBH and treat women like dogs, and you'd still have an army of red on your side. You'd even have the opposition team and fans' respect. Gay footballers didn't exist. Never mind the fact there was likely to be at least one man per team who preferred sex with men, as far as the fears and prejudices of the shaking straight men – gay footballers did not exist. It jarred with their identity, their masculinity. Brendan had fallen from star player to a man disgusted and despised, with his skills unchanged.

Of course Brendan knew Tony was right. He agreed as much, it had become a reluctant weight. A heavy and accepted level of abuse. He had been passive to it all; the chants, the looks, the whispers. He became the target on the pitch, not the goal. Even his own team mates, cursing in their own languages with their inside jokes. They couldn't be a team anymore.

Tony had pushed forward a termination contract. Nudging it with his pen. "The club's taken a dive financially. I can't be seen to keep you on the team what with the incident the other day and the general mood out there." Brendan shadowed Tony in his dominance and intensity, muscle broadness double the size of Tony's. But it was Brendan who shrank in the seat. "If I'm seen to get rid of you from the team then – well – it's not legally possible for me to do that. With you being –" he cleared his throat "-homosexual, there's something of an equality position we have to stand by."

"You want me to resign."

"I want us to come to an agreement," Tony said. He was a little warmer than Brendan expected. "Brendan, you've been an exceptional player and the last thing I want to do is lose you. But I have to think of the club's future."

So with a pay-out, Brendan accepted and he left the grounds, bagged up all his United gear to be sent off back to the club. It wasn't closure; he didn't get a sense of resolution. And he was headed back to Ireland, to bury himself in whiskey and empty one night stands most likely. If he could rebuild his image, lay the groundwork, he might have prospects. He might have something to his name. He knew that going back to Ireland he'd piss away the cash and sink lower into a great well of loneliness, worse than ever before if he didn't have something to live for.

He waited at the door, jittery. When she answered, making him sweat in the wait, she looked like the more dressed up version of his girlfriend, not like the aggrieved photos of her he'd seen countless of in the press.

"You've got some nerve," she said, scowling. "What do you want?"

Brendan lowered his head. "A word. Can I come in?"

"You know, I've got a right mind to call the police for trespassing." Her hands rested familiarly on her hips.

"It's still under my name," he said and pushed past her into the hallway.

"Jesus Brendan! After everything you've done to me, you're gonna treat me like this?!" She slammed the door shut and marched across to him, chin sharp with anger.

"What I did you was wrong, okay? I should never have done it. I'm gonna live every day regretting that you saw what you saw. I'm sorry. I'll tell you over and over: I'm sorry. And I know you won't take a word of it because you deserve better than a scumbag like me."

"Yeah I do," she said, momentarily flicking her head forward-facing to meet his gaze. "And you're right. I'm never gonna forgive you. It was disgusting."

Brendan grimaced and staggered over to the sofa, propping himself against the back of it. "I'm going home to Ireland."

"So I read in the papers."

"Fresh start, you know." He drummed his fingers on his knees. "I thought for me and you, we could start again. I could treat you right this time. Like you deserve. Marry ya, start our family."

Eileen scoffed, she moved her hands as she spoke as though she was chopping Brendan into pieces. "So I come over here with you, after you've fucked your share of men in Ireland and then we get here and you're doing god knows what with that Ste Hay. I walked in on yous Brendan, in our house! Jesus you probably fucked him in our bed as well –"

"-No!"

"Well you might as well've!" Eileen drew up to him, venom squinting her eyes. "Drop dead, Brendan. You expect me to be your trophy wife, bringing up your kids and telling them 'Daddy's not home, he's off putting his dick up a man's arse?!' Well I won't."

Brendan shook his head, trying to silence her, trying to still her with his hands on her shoulders. "It was a phase you know, just a way to get kicks. I ain't queer. We can make this work, I know we can."

"You're an embarrassment. Go on, just look at yourself!" Eileen shoved him and they caught their reflections in the mirror. "You're a gay man, Brendan. And a coward at that."

Brendan snapped. "I've lost my whole fucking life because of you, running off to make your cash outta me."

She jabbed her finger at him. "No. You did this. You dragged me along to cover up your secret. Think about the life you took away from me." Mascara blobbed down her cheeks as a tear shook its path there. "All I've ever been is _your_ girlfriend. My whole life was set up. I wasted years on you, thinking that one day we'd have a family of ours. You didn't think of me at all. All I've got to show for this sham is a bleeding book deal." She sniffed, plastering on a smile. "See, I'm still living off of you!"

"I've nothing left, Eileen."

"Yeah well join the club," she said, wiping her face. "You won't get any sympathy from me. Try your boyfriend."

He didn't tell her how things with Steven had gone, he suspected she didn't want to know and wouldn't take pity on him either way. She was hardly the person he should be hankering for understanding from when she still smarted from what he'd done. He left her the engagement ring and when he got to the flat he'd rented in Manchester, signed the house over to her.

He looked across the city views, wondering if Steven was out there doing the same. He might as well have been in a different world. They'd not spoken since the parting in the hotel. It pained Brendan to even read his name in the media. It looked like everything was falling into place for him. He was days away from the Park transfer: everything he'd ever wanted. The agony of not seeing him, not being with him, felt like someone reaching through his throat and gutting him, removing all life from him. He would tell himself, in the dead of night that this had all been inevitable from that first day. Steven had always maintained football came first and he hadn't gone back on that. He'd made his choice.

::: :::

Ashleigh had – reluctantly with her feet dragging saying his reasoning was against her principles – signed him up to a PR firm. The best money could buy. The man in charge was disgustingly wealthy. Who he couldn't make appear straight wasn't worth knowing.

They called the method they were taking with his case: bleaching. An attempt to throw everything at playing down his sexuality. The CEO, Trevor Royle, had made it pretty clear that there was already too much in the press about him to give him a complete makeover for heading home, but they'd put everything they had into it. For a price.

"Why are you doing this?" Ashleigh said. She actually had a desk in her office. Junked to the heavens and littered with photos from boozy nights out, but a desk all the same. "Think of all the good you could do being _out_. And instead you're just going to hide away in the closet again?"

"It's over Ashleigh. It's done. I got no one to wrap myself in rainbow flags for. I ain't a role model. What have I got to tell kids about?" He stood up, hands pressing on her desk but all she did was shake her head at him. He spat at the pity in her eyes.

"And you think making out you're bi, that the male lovers were a phase, is going to help anyone, do you? Going to help you?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, ramming his defiance at her with razor eyes. "I got the world at my feet again Ashleigh." He left her with an empty smile and a hollow confidence that had him rattling away from her for good.

::: :::

There seemed to be an irony of packing up and moving on transfer deadline day. He loaded his suitcase to swap lives, to become a new Brendan again. He expected the pressure to die down whilst he took some time out from football. And compared to the attention teams in England got, no one seemed to care too much about Irish teams.

He was thankful for being busy on that day, that his mind was lodged with plans for arriving in Dublin and a property that he was getting his hands on. He pushed every thought of Steven out of his mind, but like a sieve, images and emotions stuck. The gritty stuff, the bits that hurt and were too good to lose. He had been packing shoes and rolling up socks inside and he had this acute memory of Steven's bare spine, every knot of him, as he redressed. He had thrown a bashful _What?_ in Brendan's direction and then made dimples appear in his cheeks. Or Brendan would pack a shirt, one that still had a button missing from a time when it was ripped free by his eager hands and persistent mouth.

Every thought panged like knife in a block of ice and he considered just heading to the airport empty handed. That was how he felt anyway. At least he could escape the air of Manchester, the thought of him around every corner, on every billboard. He couldn't avoid him, even at the cost of the agony.

At the airport he sat swilling his every regret into the whiskey at the bottom of his glass. With no going back he allowed those forbidden thoughts, the what-ifs, the different paths, next lives and happy endings. He scoffed at how pathetic he had become and ordered another, hidden behind his beanie hat and sunglasses.

Once he'd started drinking, a guy next to him called over the bar top. "Hey mate, put it on Sky Sports would ya?" It was only then Brendan noticed the collars of the guys blue City shirt under his jumper. Brendan slinked away to a table away from him, but as the TV screens went on, he realised he was surrounded by Steven's face at every angle.

Brendan had never seen him looking like this on TV before. He looked pale sitting behind a press conference desk, the camera lights sparking white across his drawn expression. Steven poured himself a water, the jug shaking and sipped at it. Brendan guessed this was what a man looked like when all his dreams came true. He wanted to shout at him through the screen _Go on then! Smile! This is what your life's made of._

But he didn't. He sat trapped, watching the introduction to the conference like the world around him didn't exist, like an accident on the motorway with all its addictive gore. It scored into him like a wound, just how much he missed him.

A joke was made by the speaker, Warren Fox and then all eyes and cameras honed in on Ste and he cleared his throat.

"Thank you all for coming," he said, tongue sticking on his words and he reached forward to take another sip. "Sorta feels like this day was never gonna come, but it's a leap of faith, innit? I've been working hard my whole life and now I'm at a crossroads, like which path do I choose? This is like a new journey for me and it's terrifying. But this is gonna be the best thing for me. Cos it's all I've ever wanted really. Even if I didn't always know it, it is."

Brendan strained to hear Ste's every word, but the guy at the bar shouted for it to be turned up and as Brendan drained his glass, he had Steven's voice echoing around him.

"I know why everyone's here today and they can't wait for me to just come out and say it, so I won't keep you hanging." A muffled quiet fell in the press conference, camera clicking, papers shuffling. "I'm not signing a contract today, I'm not transferring."

An audible mutter filled the speakers and Brendan looked up from his drink and to the barman who'd stopped mopping the bar surface and the City fan that was nudging his mate. Warren Fox on screen, blinked rapidly and sat back in his seat. His face spoke for his confusion.

"What I'm doing today is coming out. I'm gay. I'm a gay man and I'm a gay footballer. Well, ex-footballer. I'm retiring n'all."

Brendan couldn't be sure if he heard a gasp on the TV or if he imagined it through the dumbfounded silence. All he knew it that he lost grip on the glass and it bounced on the table and spilt its contents over the top. He looked right into the TV screen and it was as if Steven was staring straight back, looking directly at him.

Some time had passed, although Brendan wasn't aware of it, and Steven had begun answering questions from a flustered crowd of journalists. Brendan could just about make out his answers after the City fan had ranted to his mate and then dragged him out of the bar, pint downed.

"Ste," asked one of the journalists. The camera zoomed onto Ste's face, brighter now, at ease. "Did your decision to come out today have anything to do with the recent revelations about Brendan Brady?"

Brendan felt as if someone had their hands around his heart, choking it from beating. He held his breath. The Sky News tickertape of breaking news changed to read: City player Ste Hay comes out and retires from football.

Ste looked down for a moment, his beautifully angled features casting shadows. "Of course it was to do with Brendan. It's cos of Brendan." Brendan couldn't hear the sounds of stifled shock because blood banged around his head. "I love him. I love Brendan."


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: This is it The End! I have to thank you all so much for your wonderful comments throughout, it's been an absolute pleasure to read all your lovely thoughts. I'll miss reading all your ranting and raving and miss writing this story. I hope you enjoy the ending. Lots of love for all your support.**_

_**:::**_

_**::**_

* * *

_Seventeen – Ste_

He took a step back, puffed out the breath he was holding. Cheers jangled about his ears but all he could focus on was the dirt marked football in front of his eyes. He eyed the goal and then with one confident kick, soared it straight into the netting. He fist pumped the air like old times and smiled for the cameras. That would make a great one for the campaign.

Off to the side of the pitch he signed autographs and had photos taken with young fans, girls mostly, until Ryan caught his eye and he made his way over.

"Thank you so much for today," he said taking a firm shake of Ste's hand. The little rainbow badge on his lapel shook. "It means a lot to us to have you as our patron and the turnout has been amazing." Ste couldn't over think the fact that the charity's very existence was formed from his announcement all those months back.

Ste smiled, looking over to where a small group of teenage boys kicked around the football he'd been playing with. He'd spotted them in the crowd when he gave his speech and could almost picture himself in their faces. Whether they would battle with the same queries he had remained to be seen, but it was something that they at least came to hear him speak.

Ryan walked with him back to the car, chatting about the next project he had lined up; a school tour across England and a new anti-bullying campaign.

"I know it's a big ask, all that travelling, but I think getting the message through schools is a good way to start."

Ste leant on the door of his car, nodding. "Yeah you're right. Whatever you think." It seemed funny to him that the nerves kicked in when he was asked to stand up in front of so many faces and speak honestly when he'd spent so long diverting the truth. All they wanted from him was to hear of his struggles and his campaigns for the changing future of sport and sexuality, and yet it terrified him. Put him on a pitch with thousands of fans baying for blood and it made him buzz; no problem.

"Off anywhere nice this afternoon?" Ryan asked moving the conversation onto something more casual. He was a rather charming flirt, schmoozing companies and businesses for money for the charity, and Ste was only just getting used to attention from other men so openly, now that he was so infamously out.

Ste belted himself into the car. "Doing one of those gay magazine interviews again. Then heading to the airport."

"Oh? Somewhere exotic?"

"I'm going home." Ste said, a smile relaxing his face. He revved the engine and waved Ryan goodbye.

::: :::

For the first time, the magazine's questions made him blush and laugh. It wasn't like those first fresh interviews which went way over his head with their analysis on his socio-cultural move or where he was asked to make deeply impassioned speeches to teenagers struggling. He'd told them several times over how lucky he had been in life and that he was now using his status as a role model to education and help kids and sport players, but he didn't know if he was good enough at advice, what with all the clumsy mistakes he'd made in his desperation to keep being gay a secret. He wasn't about to mouth off about what other celebrities should and shouldn't do – he'd been there and he knew it wasn't an option for many who wanted to keep their career. They had to have to a reason to start being honest. He just hoped things would change for the next generation.

This time, months down the line, they were keen on him getting his kit off and talking about favourite positions and his porn habits, whether he'd ever had sex in his football kit. He knew they'd be writing things like "_Ste Hay's eyes glittered darkly as he replied: 'Maybe'."_ Of course he was frank and flirty, but professional in what he would and wouldn't say: _Ste looked coy, batting away the suggestion with the mumbled response of "That's private." _He hadn't broke a habit of a life time, his private life, despite being ripped open by his own admission, still had elements of secrecy and he intended to keep it that way, even though they weren't shy about trying to get him to name specifics in his answers.

One of the guys from the photoshoot gave him a few of the pictures on a memory stick before he left. "These might go down well at home," he said, winking.

In the airport, he shuffled through, continuing with the routine of sunglasses and a baseball cap. He bought some sweets on the plane from Smiths and quickly passed a rack of OK! Magazines that had his photo on. He'd done the house tour photos for some extra cash so there was enough money for an indoor pool and a loft conversion for the kids' playroom in the new house, he'd just forgotten that press photos tended to follow him around in whichever shop he was in and reminded him that despite his change of location, he was still as famous as ever.

The airport brought back a rush of sensations as he stood with the flow of passengers swarming around him. Airports were always used in movies as that final romantic moment with couples throwing themselves over barriers, following obstacles of miscommunication and near misses. His own airport story sounded less dramatic than that when he thought back to it, but the memory of it came clear with a sweeping orchestra soundtrack and a hazy dream-like quality.

He had been out of the press conference for just ten minutes, locked away from the press in a hotel room, Patrick Blake and Warren Fox going ballistic and being caged off by security guards. Anne sat on the hotel suite sofa with her arm around Ste's back while Mark tried to battle against the flow of press to find him an escape route.

Ste thought he was going to throw up. He remembered things he'd seen on TV, like breathing into a paper bag or what women do during labour. Anne's perfume was suffocatingly sweet and she kept babbling on at him as he tried to think over the past hour's events.

"Some warning might have been nice," Mark said rubbing his forehead, he was growing lines by the minute.

"Oh give over," Anne said batting him away. "He did tell you."

"Yes! About two minutes before we entered the room."

Ste was about to tell them to shut up, telling them he'd sort it and they'd get their money – they had nothing to stress over – but then Mark's phone rang, his personal phone and a number he didn't recognise. After a moment's muttered chat, Mark looked to Ste and presented him the phone. "It's for you."

When he first put it to his ear he heard the echoing chattering of an open space filled with bustling people, tannoy announcements. He didn't register where or who it could be until that one word alerted him into consciousness.

"Steven?"

Brendan's voice didn't seem real at all, like all his dreams and memories of it had messed with reality and he had to question whether it was really him on the phone. He stood and paced away from Anne and Mark, standing by the window and propping against it for support.

"I saw you on the TV," he said. He sounded weary, as stunned as Ste was.

"Where are you? Are you in Ireland?" It felt like wherever he was it was too far away.

"I'm at the airport," he said. Ste could him shake himself into a clearer state of mind. "Jesus Christ Steven why did you do that, you had everything."

Ste wiped his wrist across his eyes, the shock of it all catching up with him. "No I didn't," he said, breath hitching. "Not without you."

A tannoy announcement broke the silence and Ste was sure all Brendan would be able to hear was his tearful huffs on the other end. The strength in the conference had all been bravado. Of course he was terrified, he felt more alone than ever and he risked it all for a man he wasn't even with, who was moving to another country and leaving behind what they had for another life and a cover up of what he was.

"I love you," Brendan said, the background noise drying up so Ste could hear his voice splinter.

"You still want me?" Ste sniffed, his gulp feeling heavy in his throat.

A crackle of a boarding announcement to Dublin interrupted him. "Of course I still want you."

Ste's cheeks were still shiny with tears as he smiled, head dizzy and aching from everything that had passed. "Well don't get on that flight then, alright? Cos I don't want you to go."

"I won't, okay? I promise. Where are you? I'll come and get you."

Before Ste could pause, Mark had him packed off in a car and fended off press with statements, leaving Ste to sit watching Manchester speed behind him. He played with his bottom lip, receiving updates from Anne, sitting beside him, who was texting her assistant to pick up a bag of his belongings and a passport sent on a courier bike.

She squeezed his knee. "This is all so exciting!" She clapped her hands together, oblivious to Ste's pale nausea. "I've already called the airport, they've taken Brendan to the VIP lounge and we've got security there to take you on through."

Ste turned to, head shaking. "All this…I can't do it."

"What do you mean you can't do it!" Anne said, her piercing exclamation startling the driver. "You've just come out live on TV to millions of people. You are trending worldwide on Twitter; you, Brendan, your teams and Zayn Malik's new tattoo." Anne shook his knee. "This is your moment sweetheart, you've done the hard bit, now you've got to get in there and grab it by the balls." She paused. "I don't mean grab Brendan Brady by the balls. Unless…"

She made him laugh, the first time in weeks. Then he let her lead him through a side entrance, sheltered by his pulled up hoodie and it became a covert mission to get him through the airport with as little fuss as possible.

When he got past security to the VIP lounge, he saw Brendan jittering in a chair, his knees and hands bouncing in agitation. Things slowed around him, he could barely feel the shove Anne gave him and the way she disappeared to speak to a member of the airport staff about the delivery. Ste watched Brendan rise to his feet like a man who'd been sat down for years and turn slowly into view as Ste approached in cautious footsteps.

All the pain in their parting, the bitter words and the selfish actions evaporated in that moment. Ste saw Brendan's face, drawn in suffering and loneliness, a spark reigniting in his eyes at the prospect of seeing Ste again. At once everything rushed back to Ste: their intensity and passion, the common ground and affection, this ongoing battle to win more days together.

He stepped into Brendan's proximity, offering him a drained smile and threw his arms around him. Brendan's chest thumped warm and safe against his. It seemed like the easiest and most obvious choice of all. The one he'd been right to make.

::: :::

Even by the time Ste had landed in Dublin after the photoshoot, taken a taxi home, cheekily printed out the gay magazine shoot photos and laid them out on the bed, Brendan still wasn't back from his training. He'd only been away for a few days and had only heard from him that morning, but now they'd been together – properly – being apart felt even worse than it had done when it was necessary.

It hadn't happened as immediately as the press liked to suggest. Ste had flown to Ireland with Brendan and indulged in a locked-away sex filled weekend to fully quench their thirst, but there had only been an unsaid commitment then, before they had worked everything out. It wasn't the most straightforward of situations – not many celebrities quit their careers and move country, especially not with children and agents and careers to think of.

Ste had gone from a succession of orgasms on a Monday morning, immediately back to Manchester, seeing Amy and the Mark. Brendan's journey was slightly simpler, a tiny club outside of Dublin wanted him and weren't interested in anything outside of his pitch skills. Ste had been left feeling it was his choice, his decisions that would determine the next steps, Brendan had kept it simple.

"Come and live in Ireland with me. We'll get a flat away from it all where no one knows us, we won't get hassled here." It had surprised Ste, as he rested in Brendan's arms, that Brendan had such confidence in what he wanted; his days of chasing a closet wedding dream were over. The ideas of a future that Ste would never dare to entertain had started to become a reality.

Even Mark seemed pleased at the change in direction, his voice sounded pitchy on the phone when he told Ste about all the offers and positive press attention Ste was getting. When Ste visited the offices, the receptionist beamed at him, directing him to a whole room filled with letters and cards from fans and gay men praising him.

Things had calmed now and he was getting better at blocking the twats who contacted him via Twitter just to send abusive and homophobic snide messages. His charity roles meant he was around a bit more to see the kids and Brendan. Life was exactly how it should have been.

Ste had just warmed up a leftover dish of takeaway when there was a noise in the hallway. He heard Brendan's sarcastic greeting before he saw him.

"Honey, I'm home," he said, chiming through the house, before planting his lips on Ste's. His hands skimmed over Ste's back, taking a great squeeze of his behind. "This I've missed," he said. He licked his lips. "You been eating my Chinese?"

"I got hungry," Ste said, whining out of his grip and polishing off his greasy plate.

"It's not like I've been on the field all afternoon working or anything." Brendan drank milk straight from the bottle. "How was your trip?"

"Good," Ste said, bunging his plate in the dishwasher. "There's a surprise for you in the bedroom." His eyes glinted triumphantly.

"Ain't much of a surprise if you're not in there."

Ste shooed him away and waited for the reaction. He sat smugly on the kitchen counter, imagining what Brendan's reaction would be to those photos. Hip bones and pubic hair exposed in one, a football shirt just about covering his arse in another, and black and white moody shots with his mouth open and hands behind his head.

Brendan called him upstairs. He had his back to Ste, still in his County kit, one of the photos in his hand. He turned, visibly tight across the front of his kit shorts. He laughed warmly, chest shaking. "If you weren't mine, I'd pay good money for these photos."

Ste pressed the door closed behind him. "Good thing I'm yours then, innit?"

Brendan beckoned him forward. "C'mere."

The springs on the bed gave a satisfied bounce as Brendan pulled Ste down on top of it, lips making warm work of his neck. There was a sweet giggle in Ste's appreciation and he shed his clothes, resting back on his heels as Brendan looked on him with total pleasure coursing through his eyes. Ste took comfort lying on his back, spinning the photos onto the floor as Brendan tongue hungered across his belly.

Ste's head fell to the side, their framed City and United shirts together on the wall catching his eye. Brendan's cross emerged from his forest of chest hair and dangled for Ste to snatch with his teeth, reaching up to rub his bottom lip along Brendan's collar bone. There wasn't a moment where he thought his life could ever grow to be so simple and satisfying. He didn't have his football anymore but it didn't matter – he'd achieved his dreams in so many other ways.

Brendan made love to him, still half dressed in his kit, thighs still stuck with mud and sweat and charged by all that power and aggression he carried through every game. Ste had his hands pinned above his head and fingers clawed through Brendan's. They were one; fighting the same cause, part of the same team.

They were united.


End file.
